


Innsæi

by KoolJack1



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Complicated Relationships, Control Issues, Fluff, Healing, Injury Recovery, Light Sadism, M/M, Mentions of nonconsensual Sex (nongraphic), Mentions of past child abuse, Minor Dub/Sub, Nongraphic Knife Play, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Slow Burn, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Young Hannibal Lecter, canon violence, minor blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoolJack1/pseuds/KoolJack1
Summary: Hannibal and Will survive the fall, barely.Now comes the hard part; it is dangerous, getting everything one wants.Innsæi, an ancient Icelandic term: To see the sea within, the borderless nature of our internal world, the ever changing and moving world that exists beyond words and barriers, the internalized experience of soul searching and learning oneself.A post-fall fiction about navigating forts, boundaries, and desires.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 67
Kudos: 230





	1. Illuminate

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters are written and will be posted every Friday.  
> All mistakes are my own.  
> Kudos feed the brain, comments feed the heart :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illuminate: To light up, especially with gold or silver, to enunciate color.

Will coughs up so much water he’s shocked he didn’t drown; the alternative, though, was to actually drown, so he supposes he prefers this. The sand and rocks of the beach dig into his back, irritating his skin, and the loud roar of the ocean echoes in his skull. He wants to rest for a moment, nearly forgetting everything they need to do.

They.

Will’s eyes snap open and he struggles to sit up, reaching around on the sand until his hand hits something wet, solid, and completely still. Will crawls to Hannibal and pushes the other man from his side to his back.

Mouth open, Hannibal isn’t breathing. The sand around him is dark and clumpy, pooling around him is a mixture of sea water and blood. Will grabs his face and pries his eyes open, finding only his whites, his fingers traveling down to find his neck, met with only a faint and slow throb.

“Fuck,” he struggles to his knees and starts CPR, pressing air into his lungs through his mouth in hopes of forcing the water out at the same time, “Fuck you, Hannibal.”

Will tries with everything he has, desperately, his own pain coursing through him. The blood from his cheek drips down onto Hannibal’s shirt. Will watches from outside himself when reality sets in that this probably won’t—Hannibal has lost too much blood, swallowed too much water. Will vaguely remembers himself floating in the darkness of the ocean, only to be dragged above the waves by Hannibal. He had been weak, even then, struggling to stay above the water himself, yet still pulling Will up.

_’I need your belt,’ Hannibal had gasped into his ear, struggling to breathe when he turned them and took the rocks to his back when the waves cast them against the jagged wall unforgivingly. Will comes back to himself enough to realize Hannibal can’t get them out of the water alone. He tries with one arm to hold him and Hannibal against the rocks, and with the other struggles with his belt. For a moment, Hannibal clings to him, shaking like a leaf and clearly suffering, before his eyes clear slightly, ‘Our clothes, we will drown with them on.’ Will struggles out of his pants and shirt, trying to help Hannibal out of his. Will gets to his boxers, and gets Hannibal to his boxers and sweater before they’re slammed into the rocks particularly hard, Hannibal’s head knocking back and his body crushed between Will and the rocks. Will scrambles to perch again on one of the rocks, grabbing Hannibal just as his eyes roll back in his head. Will holds on with one hand and pinches Hannibal’s face hard enough to bleed, but it works and the man reanimates and blinks. ‘The belt,’ he rasps, his breathing wet, ‘loop us together so we can swim.’ Will’s injured shoulder screams at him, but he knows Hannibal is fading and they need both their hands. He’d barely gotten them tied together before a larger wave throws them against the rocks again and then tosses them far from their perch._

_He grabs Hannibal’s hand as they tumble, feeling the other man’s nails dig into his arm until they stop turning and Will kicks back to the surface. Without the belt, he would’ve lost him in the dark, merciless water. Together, they try to use the tide and their bodies to get them to the shore. Twice during the slow journey, Hannibal’s head slips under and Will has to drag him back up, watching his eyes roll in his head for a moment before he slowly struggles towards the shore once more._

Will pounds on Hannibal’s chest one more time, and finally Hannibal jerks to life. Will narrowly jumps back as a thick mixture of blood and water is projectile vomited all over. Will has half a mind to help Hannibal sit up, leaning him back against Will’s chest and pressing his face to Hannibal’s hair as he tries to breathe. Will tilts his head, pressing his ear to Hannibal’s back and listens to his chest rattle and wheeze. A death rattle. 

Hannibal would tell him to focus and think, so he does. Hannibal has stilled and gone limp again, not nearly getting enough out, so Will mechanically lifts his hand and finds Hannibal’s mouth and shoves his fingers past his lips and into his throat. It works, Hannibal throws up more water and blood, and Will doesn’t let go, letting his hand slip down to press against Hannibal’s chest.

Headlights illuminate them suddenly and Will flinches, turning as a jeep rushes towards them. Will prepares for the questions, prepares for Jack to question him relentlessly about why he’s cradling Hannibal to his chest, but instead Chiyoh gets out and surveys them. “We don’t have much time,” she comments, “Is he alive?”

Will squints up at her and nods rapidly, “Yeah. Yeah, he is, but barely.”

She says nothing else as she comes to their side, helping Will stand before they both drag Hannibal up. Hannibal, for the most part, is quiet, aside from painful sounding breaths and the occasional groan as they manhandle him into the car. Will climbs in the back with him, and in the light of the car Hannibal looks terrible. “Buckle him in, it is going to be bumpy getting down the beach,” she states, and Will hurries to comply. He puts Hannibal’s head in his lap and reaches to buckle one seatbelt across his chest and the other across his thighs.

It is bumpy, it jostles Will’s entire body and shoots pain through his nerves. He focuses on Hannibal, though, who whimpers without opening his eyes and struggles against the buckles. Will was never good at comfort, never one for physical touch, but he finds himself smoothing Hannibal’s hair from his face and cooing quietly to soothe him and it comes almost naturally. His other hand goes to lift Hannibal’s shirt, finding the bullet wound angry and irritated. It is the worst of the damage, Will thinks, at least what he can see with his eyes.

They drive for a few minutes down the rocky beach, Hannibal’s eyes only opening once to rove unseeingly around the car before he goes limp again. When the car stops, Will sees a boat tied to a small dock. “We get you both on there, and I go dump the jeep just in the woods over there and then I will be back. We leave within a half hour,” Chiyoh instructs as they unstrap Hannibal.

They probably do him more damage as they drag him into the boat, but there is no way Hannibal can help them. For a moment of consciousness, Hannibal tries to get his feet under him, only for his legs to buckle and he nearly crumples out of their grip. “He needs medical attention, now,” Chiyoh tells Will when they drop Hannibal onto the cot in the cabin, “He can’t wait for me. You need to clean the wounds and stop the bleeding.” She moves Hannibal’s hair, finding where he bleeds from the side of his skull, “He almost split his head open,” Chiyoh accuses, glaring at him, “Hannibal was fine until you came along.”

Will laughs, humorlessly, “Fine? I wouldn’t ever call Hannibal ‘fine.’ I changed him. This is his becoming.”

Will starts cutting through Hannibal’s sweater with the medical sheers, “Hannibal is different, he has always been different. You cannot change him. You did awaken a part of him that has been long dormant, though. What you’ve experienced is Hannibal’s love.”


	2. Revenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenant: A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is intended to be 4 chapters, but it is growing with editing and revision and may end up being 5 or 6!
> 
> Kudos feed the soul and comments are a socially distant warm hug <3

Then, she’s gone, and Will is alone with a very, very out-of-it Hannibal. Hannibal is half awake, but Will isn’t sure he’s coherent or alert. Will rifles through the medical kit, thinking back to some of his training. His fingers search the bullet hole in his front, wincing with empathy when Hannibal groans at the pain, too weak to do anything else. He slips his hand under Hannibal’s back, finding an exit wound there, “It went through you, that’s a good thing. It feels like it passed right through the flesh,” he informs Hannibal, who stares up at him through slits in his eyelids.

Will gets to work cleaning the wound, holding Hannibal’s hand when he dumps the rubbing alcohol on it and the other man practically squeals. Will would’ve always thought he’d get at least some pleasure out of Hannibal’s pain, but instead he winces and leans his head close to the others for a moment and shushes him comfortingly before continuing to pack the entry wound, then the exit wound.

Hannibal is trembling so hard his teeth chatter, and Will feels himself starting to fade from consciousness as the adrenaline wears off. He struggles, for Hannibal’s sake, to keep his eyes open long enough to tend to Hannibal’s head, cutting the clumps of blood and hair to get to the wound. “Sorry,” he mumbles stupidly, knowing Hannibal’s new haircut would drive the other man nuts. Hannibal doesn’t respond, doesn’t even indicate he’s aware of his surroundings, let alone processing that Will is cutting out chunks of his hair.

The headwound is deep, and Will purses his lips at the sight of bone, not totally convinced he didn’t actually crack his skull open. With shaking hands, Will cleans the wound, concerned when Hannibal doesn’t react, and starts a clumsy stitch of the gash. He had no real experience with stitches, knows this will scar ugly and raised; he almost feels bad, all too aware that Hannibal himself could stitch his own head efficiently under different circumstances and still do a better job. With shaking hands, Will works quickly, trying not to be alarmed at how deathly still Hannibal has gotten again.

Just as he feels he’s ready to collapse, Chiyoh returns. He looks up at her and tries to speak, but instead his vision darkens and he falls forward.

••••••••••••••••••••••• 

Will wakes up slowly, unsure what he remembers and what was a dream. He’s warm and comfortable, the pain a dull ache in his body. The cut in his face is tightly stitched and bandaged, his shoulder tightly strapped to limit movement— he does feel much better. They’re still on the boat, he notes, as he sways back and forth familiarly. He slowly opens his eyes, hearing someone else breathing besides himself. Hannibal lays on the other cot across the room, pillows stuffed all around him to keep him still. An IV linked to his to his arm, Hannibal looks so small on the bed. Part of Will feels annoyed that the man is still alive; it would've been easier to wake up to a world where Hannibal was gone, he tries to lie to himself. His own IV tugs at his arm when he slowly sits up, shuffling towards the other cot.

“He’s unconscious,” Chiyoh speaks suddenly, “He broke a few ribs, has a concussion. Broke his arm. Almost bit his tongue off too. He took the worst of this.”

Will frowns down at the other man, “We’ve both suffered for the other.”

Chiyoh scoffs, “I haven’t seen Hannibal in years, but he didn’t have all those scars before he met you. He may have hurt you, but he did all this for you.”

Will glances at her, annoyed but tired, "I have suffered every day because of Hannibal. About time he paid me back."

She stands from where she had diligently taken post at the stairs, where she can keep watch on the deck and watch over them as well. "You were minimally hurt, he made sure of it. I only took so much time to treat your wounds because he would want me to," she sounds venomous, dangerous. "I found him, carrying you through the snow. He wouldn't let go of you, you know. Not until he made sure we had you tucked into your bed. Only then did he let me care for his wounds. You are holding Hannibal to a standard he cannot meet, Will Graham. He cannot process his feelings for you in a way we process our feelings for him," Will finally looks over at her from where he hovers over Hannibal, wonders if she would have time to stop him before he dug a scalpel into Hannibal's jugular. "That night," she continues quietly, "When you sent him away. He stayed outside your window, watched over you. I tried to convince him to leave but he was tethered to you. Hannibal cannot help who he is, but you can. You play with him just as he plays with you. He waited for Jack Crawford to come and take him because he did not want to know what would happen if he tried to live without you again. I told him I don't think you are worth it; I cannot see what he sees in you," she smiles at him slightly, and Will looks away, back down at Hannibal's sunken face, "He insists you are beautiful and unique; he is revenant in your company, he speaks of you understanding him with absolutism.”

Objections die on his tongue-- he wants to tell her he has no feelings for Hannibal, that he wishes Hannibal had just left the very first time. Wants to tell her that he wants to go back to his wife and stepson, that he cannot and will not ever understand Hannibal, that he wants leave Hannibal to a Viking's burial at sea and never turn back. He is too tired to lie, knows she will know that he is anyway, “Is he going to be okay?”

Chiyoh is quiet for a moment, “I don’t know yet. Do you want him to be?”

Will hesitates, looking down at Hannibal’s pale face, “I don’t know yet.”

••••••••••••••••••••••• 

They sail for days, taking turns. Chiyoh had cleaned him up quite well. She keeps up on tending to his wounds diligently, a reflection of Hannibal himself when she carefully cleans his shoulder and face, "They will scar," she informs him. There is no words left to tell her that he has scars far deeper in his soul than he could ever have on his face. Hannibal had stocked the vessel well in preparation. When he had started, Will wasn’t sure, but it was clear he had hoped.

When Will finds a trunk of clothing Abigail’s size, he feels bile in his throat and barely makes it into the bathroom in time to throw up.

That night, when Chiyoh takes over sailing, Will carefully climbs into Hannibal’s cot. The other man hadn’t woken for more than a few minutes every day to drink water and mumble the occasional nonsense or something in a language Will does not understand. Chiyoh medicates him heavily-- Hannibal is easier to care for when he isn't trying to maintain control. Once, Will asks him to rate his pain, like they did for him when Hannibal left him gutted and he was recovering. They are alone, laying on the cot, Hannibal's eyelids fighting to stay open. “Ten,” Hannibal rasps, wincing and coughing, trying to fold in on himself. Will gently holds him down until he settles, and he doesn’t try to get Hannibal to speak again. Something a lot like guilt settles in Will's chest when Hannibal turns his head to nuzzle against Will's hand.

As per usual, things always get worse before they even consider getting better. When the fever sets in from an infection, Chiyoh ups his antibiotics and instructs Will to keep cleaning his bullet wound. It has festered despite extra care, and Will wrinkles his nose at the smell of infection and sickness. He finds himself whispering quietly to Hannibal most times, compulsively close to him as often as possible, distracted when he goes up to take over sailing.

“Will,” one night Hannibal whispers when Will is sitting in the room with him, reading quietly out loud. Will comes closer, “Chiyoh has access to my accounts, I just ask that—” Will shakes his head and covers his mouth with his hand. Hannibal's lips are so dry under his palm, his face radiating an insufferable heat. In that moment of clarity, Hannibal thinks he might die; Will has half the mind to offer him comfort, reassure him he will be okay. Reassure him that they'll get to Palermo for the Norman Chapel, will stroll the streets of Italy and France, and at night, they will tuck themselves away and explore their memory palaces. Welcome the other behind the walls and weather the beauty and the suffering that lingers there, together.

“Don’t,” he states definitively, blinking hard to push the tears back, “I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want then?” Hannibal wheezes, inhaling slowly. He looks up at Will with fever bright eyes and flushed cheeks. Will resists the urge to run his fingers across the bridge of his nose and down to his chapped lips.  
Instead, he looks down at Hannibal’s face, resisting looking away when Hannibal meets his eyes with the same intense stare he used to and swallows roughly. Only Hannibal could manage to look so severe from his potential death bed. This is a fucking mess. “Or do you still not know?” Hannibal pushes, sounding winded just from the brief sentence.

He didn’t know Hannibal would remember hearing him and Chiyoh and he frowns slightly, “I know now. I want you to be okay.” Part of him wants to believe he only answers to keep Hannibal from trying to speak more, but he knows in his heart it is true. It seems useless to lie to him now-- they are alone, and what will come of them will happen anyway.

It’s hard to tell if Hannibal believes him or even really hears him, but his eyes slip closed and he doesn’t respond.


	3. Gaslight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaslighting: A specific type of manipulation, during which the victim is pressed to question their own sanity, reality, memory, or perception.

They sail to a small port, and when Will asks Chiyoh where they are, she glares at him and demands he wait on the boat.

Will listens, afraid to leave Hannibal for too long. He’s awake and alert more and more, even sitting up at some points.

Chiyoh comes back with a restock of supplies, a plan he thinks Hannibal had shared with her at some point, and they set sail again. “Cuba,” she tells him finally, “We are sailing to Argentina.” She had brought back seemingly endless supplies and refilled the boat. “We will stop again in Brazil for fuel and supplies. We are lucky, the wind and weather is on our side—we will use less fuel that way.”

Hannibal starts to feel better, and he shows it by giving more orders and having higher expectations. He demands they lower his pain medication, his words slurred and clearly uncoordinated, claims he wants his thoughts clear. He can’t move around much without help, but it seems he’s out of the woods mostly. He still sleeps a lot and his pain hovers around a seven, which means for someone else it would be a ten. Twice, Chiyoh has to secure his ribs and tighten the makeshift cast onto Hannibal’s arm. Both times, he retreats into his memory palace while Will looks on, fascinated by the way he detaches himself from the pain. The bullet wounds heal, the infection clearing relatively quickly thanks to their attentive care.

The fever breaks in only a few days, with only one night of Hannibal nearly delirious from it. Will held him that night, letting Hannibal cling to him, knowing he won’t remember any of it.

_At first, Chiyoh barked at him to stay back, pressing cold compacts to Hannibal’s feverish skin. Will watches as she tries to strip him, struggling with Hannibal’s limbs as the other man grumbles inaudibly. Will tried again to help, sighing when Chiyoh shoots him a look, “he weighs almost double what you weigh. Let me help.” She does, reluctantly, hovering nearby while Will wrestles Hannibal from his pajama bottoms and shirt. Cheeks only flushing slightly at the other man’s state of undress. Hannibal, with his impeccable style and love of fashion, was nothing but flesh under his armor, but Will doesn’t dwell on the thought._

__

_“Cold,” Hannibal murmurs, shivering when Will packs more cold compresses against his sides and neck. Will feels the heat radiate off of him, doesn’t bother responding. Mechanically, he shoves more compacts under Hannibal’s other side, then between his thighs. Hannibal flinches and coughs, groaning miserably and reaches for Will. His first reaction is to pull back, put space between them. Lips twitching, Will uncertainly takes the offered hand._

_“That will pass,” Will offers, not entirely convinced himself, but afraid that if he doesn’t respond, Hannibal will say something else. He doesn’t want to hear his voice right now. Chiyoh lurks in his peripheral, watching him with dark eyes; he clears his throat, “I’m right here,” he adds, more gently this time. Hannibal hums, shifting closer to Will with a huff. A sign of good faith that he means well, trying to settle a truce with the haunting woman watching over both of them. Will settles onto the bed, let’s Hannibal rest against him, wondering how the day he walked into Jack’s office and met Hannibal—dark eyes, fussy suits, sibilance accent— lead them to this very moment. The teacup was suspended in midair when Will laid down fully on the cot, stroking down Hannibal’s side and feeling the tension go out of both of them._

Sure enough, though, Hannibal improves remarkably. In reality, Will isn’t surprised: Hannibal had at least nine lives. Like the big cat that he was.

As for what he remembers, it’s difficult to gauge. Clearly, he doesn’t remember much, or if he does he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything, actually, as he starts to regain some of his strength. Hannibal doesn’t address what happened between them and maintains a polite and professional distance from Will. It’s infuriating, Will finds, surprisingly. He’s angry, and he stews in his anger for days without mentioning it it. He keeps his distance too, only talks to Hannibal when Hannibal talks to him. He cleans the man’s wounds, helps him to the bathroom, quietly having brief conversations before pulling the blankets up over him again and giving him medication.

It stays this way until they make it to Brazil, and Chiyoh disembarks for supplies. Will surveys the boat, sees its holding up well, and frowns when Hannibal struggles up the steps onto the deck by himself. He nearly doubles over, and Will grabs him just in time to hold him up before he falls down the stairs, “What are you doing?”

“I haven’t moved from the cabin in weeks,” Hannibal gasps, clearly in pain, “I have to tend to—”

“You have to go down and rest, that is all you have to do Hannibal,” Will demands, turning them to help get the man back down the stairs.

“I’m perfectly aware of my own limitations, I’m—”  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Hannibal. You can’t even walk up three stairs. Can you shut up and not just listen to yourself talk? We both know I’m not letting you off the boat.”

Under different circumstances, Hannibal would eat anyone who spoke to him like that, but Will is done with manners and politeness. “There isn’t a fucking thing you can do about it, either. You’ll pull your stitches.”

Hannibal sits carefully on the cot when Will lowers him to it, clears his throat. “Drink,” Will insists, pushing a water bottle into Hannibal’s shaking hands. “How is your pain? How is your breathing?”

Hannibal looks up at him through the fringe of his hair, all uneven as it grows back from where Will cut it weeks earlier. “Are you worried about me, Will?”

Will laughs humorlessly, “What do you think?”

Hannibal doesn’t smile, “I don’t know. You’ve avoided me unless it was in a clinical capacity for weeks. Do you care, or is this fulfilling a perceived obligation? Are you attempting to gaslight me, convince me I've imagined all of this and all that we are?” It goes unspoken that they've been down this road before. Hannibal had been gaslighting him for years, and is essentially still trying to now. Gaslighting is most effective when the victim is unaware of the influence and manipulation. Standing there now, as the boat sways back and forth, they are both acutely aware of the other's influence, and yet are still so open to it. Toxicity in its purest form. Beautiful, really.

Will stares back at him for a few minutes. Hannibal looks indifferent and cold, his typical approach to avoiding any emotions but unwilling to backdown. This is their usual dance, sarcasm and snide comments met with indifference and neutrality. Both refusing to give the other even a little. On the bluff, Will had seen it, though. Seen it in Hannibal’s eyes. Pain, fear, uncertainty. Worst of all, he saw love. Now, he’s hidden behind his own forts again, waiting. Will isn’t sure he even has forts anymore to hide behind.

Isn’t sure he even wants to anymore. The silence holds long enough that eventually Hannibal scoffs, his face twisting unpleasantly. "Chiyoh stitched your face nicely, perhaps you won't be terribly ugly," Hannibal sneers, hiding further behind his person suit. He's seen this side of Hannibal before, when he was confined away in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Just like everything else about Hannibal, his coping and defense mechanisms are often offensive and manipulative plays. Decoys he detonates to avoid any questioning. It dawns on Will that the sudden wave of anxiety isn't his own, though Hannibal betrays nothing but a sinister glare when Will meets his eyes again. Anxiety that he had pushed too far, anxiety that Will wouldn't answer his question, anxiety that he would answer it. Foreign to Hannibal, Will stands at a fork in the road-- he could go down the path they always do, lie and manipulate: he could play into Hannibal's game. Or, he can take the road less traveled, one he thinks neither of them had traveled down before in their lives. There are holes in the floor of the mind.

Carefully and slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, he steps into Hannibal’s space. Hannibal’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t move or object, even as Will leans down and carefully puts his hands on the side of Hannibal’s face to tilt his head up. “I care,” Will says simply, and then he presses a closed lipped kiss to Hannibal’s dry and cracked lips. 

Neither of them close their eyes or move any more than necessary. The kiss is more of a press of their faces then any real attempt at affection. It lasts only a few seconds before Will pulls his head back just a fraction, studying Hannibal's eyes up close.

Hannibal’s expression softens for just a second, his armor cracked, before it hardens again and he tries to retreat behind his person suit once more, “I don’t appreciate your constant attempts to manipulate—”

Will huffs and presses their lips together again, this time moving them against Hannibal’s slowly. Hannibal remains still for a few seconds before his slowly reciprocates. Uncertainty blooms between them as they wade into uncharted waters, again, both equally at each other's mercy. Shaking hands carefully come up to grip Will’s shirt tightly, a soft groan making its way from Hannibal’s chest when Will licks into his mouth. The person suit cracks and Will slips his fingers behind the veil, reaching the creature that shrinks behind it.

Will never gave much thought to kissing Hannibal before standing there on the cliff with him, but now he wonders why he never did it before. Perhaps because, void of his suits, his sharp wit, and his physical looming, Hannibal is far less intimidating, even to Will. It was never the killing that intimidated him, but instead Hannibal’s sharp personality and internal fire that kept Will from ever really considering Hannibal would ever, truly, be interested in him.

Hannibal gasps in pain when Will gently pushes him back against the cot, leaning over him on both arms, “I care,” he whispers again, “I tried to keep myself detached from you. All this time. But we were conjoined since the day we met. Neither of us would survive without the other.” There is a heady tension between them, one last desperate attempt to give up control. Will already knows he won, already knew years ago that he'd won their power struggle. Saw it in Hannibal's eyes the night he left him bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Hannibal was helpless, and Will had a great power to consider moving forward.

Hannibal is breathless, with pain and Will suspects emotion. It does nothing to take the intensity out of his gaze when Will hovers over him. “Did you wish for us both to die?”

Will touches Hannibal’s cheek, caressing it gently, “I wanted us both to live, and this was the only way.”


	4. Manipulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manipulate: to control or influence (a person or situation) cleverly, unfairly, or unscrupulously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has grown as many stories often do.
> 
> All 7 chapters are written and will be posted as editing and revision progresses on. I think I finally feel comfortable with where it will end now.
> 
> Warning for non-explicit violence and mentions of violence moving forward. Nothing too graphic.
> 
> Kudos and comments keep things moving quicker :)

Hannibal blinks twice, his gaze drifting down to Will’s lips as they hover above his. Will kisses him again, harder this time—with intent. The stitches tug and his face burns with the effort, but Will ignores it. Hannibal responds just as intently, biting hard into Will’s lip when he leans too much on Hannibal’s wounded frame. When Hannibal breaks away for air, his eyes glassy and unfocused, clearly suffering from pain, Will doesn’t really know what to expect.

He licks Hannibal’s jaw and throat, biting gently into the skin of his neck and leaning to pull Hannibal’s shirt down to reach the top of his shoulder and bite there too. Hannibal moans, swallowing hard, “Will…” he sighs, and Will doesn’t know what he expects him to say, but he never imagined he would whisper, “Be gentle and go slowly.”

Will pulls back to look down at him, both of them well aware Hannibal is in no condition for this and Will isn’t much better off. That doesn’t stop him from licking into Hannibal’s mouth again before sliding down his body to kneel on the floor by his feet. He drags Hannibal’s sweats off his legs, looking up when Hannibal laughs quietly and then flinches at the pain in his ribs. “I imagined this many times, Will. Never quite like this.”

Will smiles crookedly, up at him, and it feels shockingly natural the way he strokes his fingers up Hannibal’s half-hard shaft. Will smiles wider when Hannibal inhales sharply, “So, what did you imagine then?”

Hannibal breathes quietly for a few moments, then lifts his head slightly to look down at Will, “Taking you apart slowly with my hands and mouth,” he whispers. His mouth falls open slightly when Will gently rolls his balls in his palm before he speaks again, his voice little more than a whisper, “I think I might be in too much pain to reach an orgasm and I sadly don’t think I am physically able to bring you to one right now either.”

Will makes a face, his cheeks blushing, “It is a natural pain remedy.”

Hannibal doesn’t protest when Will explores his body, dutifully avoiding the wounds that are at all different healing stages. Will finds himself changed, never being one bold enough to take such liberties, but he lets his fingers travel under Hannibal’s balls and press into the soft skin there. “You can take what you need, though,” he slurs, flinches slightly, lifting his head again to peer down at Will again, “If you’re going to penetrate me, there is some surgical lubricant in the medical kit. Perhaps some gauze for the inside of my mouth as well,” Will looks up at him, brows furrowed. There is blood on Hannibal’s lips, clearly bleeding from one of the partially healed wounds in his mouth.

Hannibal would let him, he knows. Would let him fuck him right then and there, even if he couldn’t get off. Even if he passes out from the pain. Even if it kills him. “Do you want me to?”

Hannibal licks the blood off his lips, takes a breath, and rests his head back. Will can tell he is contemplating his response, perhaps considering if he should lie or not. Will’s fingers press against the soft skin again, his tongue tracing the slit at the end of his cock. Hannibal twitches, “You already live inside me—your voice and breath echoes in every corner of my mind,” Will watches Hannibal’s throat as he swallows thickly, “I should like to feel you buried in me as many ways as possible.”

It isn’t the answer Will expected, but it makes his cock twitch in his sweatpants, “I’ll hurt you.”

Hannibal takes a deep, pained breath, “Isn’t that what we do, Will? We hurt each other.”

“Maybe we can try a new approach to our relationship, moving forward. Do you think we’d get bored of each other if we weren’t always waiting for the other one to rip us apart at the seams?”

“I’d never tire of you, Will. If you fear you will tire of me, I encourage you to take what you need to stay interested in me. I’ve been yours this whole time.”

Will huffs moving back up the bed to lay over Hannibal again, the man looks wrecked, “You’re no ones. You don’t belong to me. You don’t belong to Jack, Chilton, Alana, Chiyoh…Mischa. You don’t belong to this world, Hannibal. You are the sun and we are your planets.”

A sad vulnerability crosses Hannibal’s face, “I’m tired, Will,” he sighs, and for the first time since they met, he breaks eye contact first, “I’ve curated a symphony and led the choir my entire life. Until I met you. I am helpless when it comes to you, Will. I’m tired of trying to regain control over you. You’ve changed me and I fear there is no going back now.”

It is a powerful admission, one Will isn’t totally sure Hannibal would be ready for if he wasn’t half dead and already at Will’s mercy, but it is an admission nonetheless. Will searches Hannibal’s eyes and face for any sign of manipulation or lie, and detects none. He decides to test the theory, sitting back to reach for the lubricant and generously squirting it onto his fingers before leaning back down over Hannibal and pressing his fingers into the tight ring of muscle.

Hannibal’s eyelids flutter and he swallows again, his nose wrinkling at the blood that leaks down his throat. The beast is tame, in that moment—Hannibal is just a man and Will is mesmerized. Hannibal doesn’t protest, even when Will roughly jabs into him, his fingers brushing a small bud. The air punches from Hannibal’s lungs, his stomach muscles clenching at the sensation. Will wants to says something, anything, tell him he looks beautiful just like this. That he’s always been beautiful. How beautiful he was, covered in blood, how gorgeous he was in the ocean, the way his mouth gaped for air. Instead, Will does it again and again, marveling in how Hannibal reacts so desperately, the way he jerks and twitches. He’s in pain, clearly, but the magnitude of touching Hannibal from the inside out is too fascinating to give up. One slow quirk of his fingers and Hannibal twists on the bed, and Will stills his fingers and winces in sympathy. He can’t catch his breath; Will's brow creases with concern and he gently rests his free hand on Hannibal’s abdomen comfortingly, “Easy,” he reminds. There is distress evident on Hannibal’s face when he flops back down flat, suspended somewhere between pleasure and pain. _Reciprocity,_ fingers twitch again, Hannibal keens in response, thighs trembling enough that Will moves his spare hand to Hannibal’s knee, just to feel the bones rattle under it. “Too much?” He whispers, already knowing the answer, “If it hurts too badly, you should say something,” Will urges, slightly sarcastically, but he knows he would stop if Hannibal asked, he also knows he won’t.

Whatever erection Hannibal had mustered had flagged between them, his cock limply pinned between their bodies, and Will finds his own flag as well. “You’ll never be too much,” he mumbles finally, “I ache to see everything you can become, to feel every caress of your fingertips, every vibration of pain you can carve.” He lets his fingers seek a few moments more, pressing on Hannibal’s insides to watch the muscles play under the other man’s skin, and then he slowly withdraws them, relishing in the whine that rips from Hannibal at the loss.

“We cannot go back. The teacup has not come together,” Will whispers, pressing unforgivingly into Hannibal’s ribs just to see the other man passively accept the rush of pain. “I think we can do this, Hannibal. Until one of us kills the other or the FBI does it for us.” 

“I’m not going to kill you, Will. Do you plan to kill me?”

“If I fuck you right now, I probably will,” he points out, “But I think I want the first time I do that to be a little less high-stakes.”

“Everything we do is high-stakes,” Hannibal retorts, forever playing a game of wit and a battle of smarts, refusing to back down first. “You’ve had many occasions to be intimate with me at far lower stakes. Some might argue what we’ve done has already been more intimate than sexual intercourse.”

Will steals himself and forces Hannibal’s eyes to meet his, “Or maybe I just want to be able to make love to you.”  
Hannibal’s mouth opens and closes, clearly at a loss for words, and Will smiles wickedly down at him, “Is that all it took to leave you speechless?”

Searching, Hannibal’s dark eyes take in every feature of Will’s face, finding no intent of deceit, “Will you?” He finally asks quietly, ignoring Will’s jest.

“Will I what?”

There is a brief pause, “Make love to me.”

Will licks Hannibal’s cheek, tasting blood and sweat, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I never imagined you were the making-love type.”

Hannibal turns his face to give Will better access to his neck, and when he speaks, his voice is rougher than before, “Does that mean you will?”

“Do you want me to?”

Will feels another tight swallow against his lips when Hannibal’s Adam’s apple bobs, “Yes.”

Will laughs, feeling light, almost happy, “Then I will, every day. As much as you’ll let me. I have no idea what I'm doing, though. With any of this.” He speaks the words against Hannibal's cheek, pressing a kiss to his temple so confidently, some may accuse him of lying.  
"Nor do I," Hannibal sighs, "But I'm yours to experiment with."

Will rises to his elbows, eyes skeptical, "I find it hard to believe you haven't fucked half of Baltimore, and probably some other countries too, by now."

Hannibal feigns hurt, "I'm flattered you think me so attractive, but I'm not that promiscuous, especially not with men. Also, as you've said, we'd do more than...fuck," his lips twitch on the word, and Will feels a rush of heat through his stomach at the sound of the word leaving Hannibal's lips, "In fact I've never had any emotional attachment to anyone at all, beyond a means to an end. My interests and pleasures laid elsewhere--"

"Like killing and cooking," Will chimes in, smiling slightly at Hannibal's disapproving look.

"--Like creating art, in every sense of the word," he corrects.

"Was that a long-winded way to tell me you're a virgin to being fucked?"

Exasperated, Hannibal sighs, resigns himself to Will's new-found directness and vulgarity, "Yes, Will."

Pleased, Will backs off a little, gentling towards the man beneath him. No reason to push so hard so early on, "Well that makes two of us, I've no experience with men and relatively little experience with women compared to you. I was never one for taking control of anything," he thinks for a moment, then adds, "But, I think for us to work, I'll have to be. You'll have to work on being more agreeable and less manipulative and defensive."

Mouth set in a hardline, his gaze clouding defensively in reflex, Hannibal's nostrils flare as if he is about to speak, but seems to change his words mid thought, "I will try, dear Will. Perhaps you'll exercise some patience with me to try to be who you'd like me to be. I imagine it will take some practice on my part."

Will wants to feel thrilled at the words, but instead that same dreadful, gnawing guilt trails down his spine, "You are exactly who I'd like you to be. I just meant between me and you, sometimes we have to concede to the other, and not take everything as such an immediate personal attack or a game we have to try to manipulate to win. I meant it for both of us, I don't want you to change who you are." The harshness in Hannibal's expression relents then, his brows furrowed in thought. Clearly, Will has dragged him into new territory, again. Together, now they'd have to reevaluate their boundaries again. "You have to respect my boundaries if I'm going to trust you."

With a hard swallow, Hannibal clears his throat, looking right into Will's eyes, "What are your boundaries, Will?"

"I need time to think about it, this is a lot to take in," he smiles softly, leaning down to press a kiss to Hannibal's jaw, "I need to know yours, too."

Almost reflexively, Hannibal speaks: "I don't have any boundaries when it comes to you, I'll--"

Will presses a kiss to his mouth, effectively silencing him, before speaking again, "No, Hannibal. You need to have boundaries and expectations for yourself. We have no previous experience with sharing this much time, space, and intimacy with another living breathing person. I need you to consider your boundaries, and when we are safely in Argentina, we can sit down and talk about them."  
After a few beats of silence, Hannibal hums in agreement and Will kisses his cheek in reward. Suddenly, the boat starts to move and Will flushes with embarrassment, “Shit, Chiyoh is back.”

He scrambles back off of Hannibal, rearranging his sleep pants, but Hannibal just lays there calmly, “I know, she came and looked in on us when you were fingering me.”

Will stares down at him dumbfounded, but not truly surprised. It is a reminder that Hannibal is Hannibal, and he will always be Hannibal. There will always be motives and manipulation, always something Will doesn’t know; Hannibal can do his best to comply with Will's wishes, but there will be a heavy learning curve for both of them to break old habits. He can’t even let himself be angry when Hannibal lifts his hand weakly towards Will. “Come back,” Hannibal asks, but it isn’t a request. Will listens, feeling his initial embarrassment and frustration fade when Hannibal curls towards him on the cot. It occurs to Will that Hannibal doesn't even register that Will might not be okay with what just happened. Boundaries. But it is not a discussion for now, and Will lets it go.  
They gently rearrange on the bed, careful not to aggravate any injuries further. Hannibal eventually comes to rest on Will’s chest, not bothering to redress, his breath tickling Will’s throat. Will tugs the thin blanket up over them both, his fingers caressing the thick scar of the brand Mason left on Hannibal’s back. He stares at the ceiling until he feels Hannibal go lax against him in sleep before he lets himself close his eyes too.


	5. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retribution: punishment inflicted on someone as vengeance for a wrong or criminal act. To right or correct a moral conflict, stabilize or balance the score after an injustice.

They sail for just around a week more before reaching Argentina. The three of them seem to retreat into themselves, with Will giving Hannibal space he may or may not think he needs, but Will is certain that, to some degree, they both do. Perplexed, Hannibal tries occasionally to bridge the gap between them, subtly suggesting more than merely helping the other with some physical task. Will doesn’t shy away from the contact when Hannibal offers it, but he does not initiate it again and retreats to his own cot each night after. Ever intuitive, Will can see it in Hannibal’s eyes that he’s trying to read the situation, frustrated that his own social skills are falling short of understanding what exactly had happened. They have to practice healthy distance if they’re going to survive each other more than a few days once they’re off the boat.

The house is spacious, too big for three people, and definitely too big for two. Hannibal had regained much of his strength in the weeks since they arrived. What he needed, Chiyoh assisted him with readily. She orbited around him like his gravity maintained her entire existence and tethered her to reality. Hannibal himself, for the most part, is quieter than usual. When they arrive, Will tends to the boat on the small dock while Chiyoh helps Hannibal gather their things. Still recovering, Hannibal limps and favors one side, enough so that Will comes to offer his arm as they slowly make their way to the house. The private dock is shielded from the road, the house itself far enough away from any neighbors that they can have some privacy and security.

Still, they don’t leave the house for the first two weeks. Chiyoh tends to getting them their supplies, scoping out the area, watching the local news. Not one story airs about their escape, either the interest had already died while they were sailing or people had forgotten. They’re careful anyway—Chiyoh shaves both of their hair and faces, and when Hannibal emerges one day dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, the scar on his head from that night in the ocean starkly apparent, it really hits Will what is happening here and what they are doing, so much so that he openly stares at the other man.

Hannibal smirks at him, “The suits wouldn’t be subtle enough.” Will doesn’t respond to that, and instead goes about their routine. The routine involves a lot of avoidance and meticulous interactions. Hannibal cooks food, sits outside with Chiyoh, plays music. Will spends a lot of time in his room and in the room that Hannibal designated for him to have for his fishing lures. Clearly, the plan had been in place all along—the third bedroom, clearly intended for Abigail-- Chiyoh had takes temporary residence in. They’re all fully furnished, and Will wants to feel guilt, feel something, but he only cries the one night and then the feelings fade.

At the end of the second week, she enters his bubble without knocking, “I’m leaving,” she states coldly.

“Thank you for everything then, I suppose,” he says evenly, and part of him even means it.

She studies him for a moment, “Hannibal is lonely.”

Taken back, Will chuckles quietly, “Oh? Did he tell you that?”

“No. But he wanted me to give you this,” she drops a folder on the desk in front of him. He stares at it for a moment before slowly opening it. A passport under a fake name, various associated documents for the identity, a bank card, and a large stack of cash fall onto the desk when he turns it over. “He has your original documents under your name as well, I guess if you want to go back to the States and tell them you escaped him.”

Will stares at the various documents on the table, frowning. A ticket to freedom. “I’ll talk to him,” he says finally, looking up at her. Perhaps retribution burned the wick too low and the fire had gone out. Retribution that Will hadn’t even been sure was entirely intentional, but apparently effective nonetheless. He doesn’t look up at Chiyoh right away, assessing the immediate reactions he feels. He can’t tell if he is elated or disappointed that he doesn’t feel guilt or the urge to disappear, but instead feels the unnerving desire to go into the other room and rip Hannibal apart for even entertaining the notion that he would leave again willing. Entertaining that the other would allow for them to survive separation. The next fleeting consideration is that Hannibal knows exactly what he is doing, and sent Chiyoh unwittingly to offer the bait for his own manipulation and mind games. Will is so tired, he chooses to believe neither, and instead determines he wasn’t lying when he told her he would go talk to Hannibal himself.

“I love Hannibal,” she informs him, “I’ve known him since we were both young. He cared for me when I was a child. He is who he is, but he is my family.” Will looks up to say something, but she holds up her hand, “For whatever reason, he loves you. I did what I did for him. If you are going to hurt him, leave now and do not look back.”

Will leans back in his chair and sighs, “I won’t hurt him intentionally,” he informs her. Her face softens for a moment, a brief glimpse of her softer nature passing over her face. She crosses the room to stand over him, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, then her expression hardens again. She shares that ability with Hannibal, that shifting ability to reveal only as much as they want.

“Goodbye, Will Graham. I hope we don’t see each other again.”

The next few days pass quietly, but Will makes a point to venture out into the shared living areas more frequently and lingers slightly longer. He stashes the documents in the closet, tries to forget they are there.

“Perhaps you’ll eat with me, Will?” Hannibal questions three days after Chiyoh had left. They’d shared only brief interactions otherwise. _Hannibal is lonely_ he hears in his head, but the man before him looks calm and collected as ever.

“Yeah, sure.”

It feels almost normal, so natural, the way Hannibal plates the food and comes around to put it in front of him on the table.

“Have you been reading? Enjoying some solitude?” Hannibal questions conversationally, but his eyes never rise from the task or from the food when he sits at the table across from Will.

“Yeah,” is all Will can muster.

Will lets his mind open, lets the echoes of Hannibal permeate his skull. Gone are the dark realities of the Chesapeake Ripper. In their place, clear desire, perhaps a little longing. Will frowns down at his food, chancing looking up again to take in Hannibal’s look. His hair has grown a few inches since Chiyoh shaved it, and its darker, probably dyed. Dark rings enunciate his already sunken eyes and make his cheekbones look sharper—he looks worn, tired. “Have you been sleeping?” Will finds the question leaving his mouth before he can stop it, and Hannibal finally looks up at him.

“I find myself distracted,” he begins, regarding Will carefully, “I spend time planning and preparing, just in case. In case I have to move suddenly.” Will doesn’t miss the way he says “I” and not “we,” doesn’t miss what Hannibal doesn’t say, _In case you leave._ The response hardly answers the question at all.

They don’t talk again after that, but when Hannibal goes to clear their plates, Will gently touches his hand, “Thank you for dinner.” There is a softness in Hannibal’s eyes as he lingers before Will removes his hand and goes back to his room.


	6. Transcend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcend: To go beyond or surpass the the perceived limits or range of something, often something abstract or created.

When Jack Crawford shows up, its remarkably uneventful. He comes alone, gun drawn, and its clear he plans to take no prisoners. He shoots Hannibal twice, lets him bleed out on the floor. Him and Will stand together over him as he dies, looking right into his eyes—

Will startles awake, blinking at the dark ceiling. Thoughts tickle his brain, and he finds himself slipping out of bed and out into the hall with an unwarranted curiosity. The door to Hannibal’s room is slightly ajar, enough that Will can see him laying on his bed, book in hand, glasses perched on his nose through the crack. Carefully, Will pushes the door open slightly wider, well aware that Hannibal already knew he was awake and standing there, “Yes, Will?”

“Are you having nightmares? Is that why you aren’t sleeping?”

Slowly, Hannibal puts the book down on his lap, glancing up at Will, “I’ve slept. Are you having nightmares again, Will?”

Will sighs, pushing the door open fully and taking a step into the room, “It’s almost three in the morning and you’re reading.”

“Yet, here you are. At three in the morning, standing in my room without knocking, stating the obvious.” It is a curious thing, Hannibal’s annoyance, and Will feels himself smile slightly. “You spoke of boundaries a few weeks ago. I’ve done my very best to respect yours. You clearly want space from me, and I never invade it. I haven’t pried for your thoughts or feelings. I gave you your freedom, yet you choose to stay here to sulk and withhold affection and attention from me. So again, Will, what is it you need?”

There is a finality in the way Hannibal says it that throws Will off guard. “Can we go downstairs?” Hannibal tilts his head at him, placing the glasses on the end table and rubbing his eyes, “To talk.”

They regard each other for a moment, and just when Will thinks Hannibal is going to refuse, he pushes the blankets aside and stands. He’s shirtless, the pajama bottoms hanging low on his waist, same as Will. The intimacy of it is striking, enough so that it fills the air around them. Will feels rooted in the doorway, even when Hannibal comes to stand in front of him. Will lets his eyes travel over Hannibal’s chest and down to his side, the bullet wound had finally healed into a nasty scar. Automatically, Will reaches out to touch it, feeling Hannibal’s muscles clench under his fingers at the contact. His fingers trail up then, resting flat against his chest, his heart beating steadily under the palm. Its difficult to look up at his face again, but almost impossible to look away from the dark eyes that bore into his. Captivated, Will lifts his other hand, and then Hannibal is stepping back, away from him and out of reach, “I still don’t appreciate being manipulated,” Hannibal says roughly, “If we are to be in a relationship, I’d prefer—”

“Relationship?” Will interrupts, and Hannibal’s nostrils flare, taking two more steps back. Will can feel the tension crackle around them—Hannibal is pushed to his breaking point. Eyes wide and impossibly dark, Will stares right into their depths, finding the same beast that had looked into his eyes that night in Hannibal’s kitchen staring back at him. Betrayal, hurt, and love, all of the worst things to confront someone like Hannibal. 

“Please, don’t interrupt me Will, its rude,” Will feels a wave of frustration radiate between them. Hannibal is frustrated, he’s _anxious_. Intrigued at the development, Will takes another step into the room, “If your boundaries are to only interact with me, in any capacity, at your whim, I’m going to have to insist we only do so in common living areas. I’m afraid we’d also have to limit—”

“Shhhh,” Will hushes gently, closing the gap between them again. Sparks sizzle in the atmosphere, a dangerous game with high-stake prizes. He’s playing with fire, he can see it in how dark Hannibal’s expression becomes. The predator feels cornered, and trapped predators are unpredictable when they feel cornered. It does not go unnoticed when Hannibal leans away from him when he invades his personal space. “I’m sorry,” he offers, “Why don’t we sit down and talk about it? I’ve thought about my boundaries and expectations, it sounds like you thought about yours.”

Will’s eyes are drawn to the way Hannibal’s jaw tenses, his fingers gently coming up to rest against the sharp jawbone instead of shying away from the menacing tightness. Hannibal’s body is taunt, clearly prepared for something; gently, almost sweetly, Will holds Hannibal’s cheeks and carefully rubs his thumbs under Hannibal’s eyes, along the sharp cheekbones. Something flashes through Hannibal’s eyes, clearly conflicted, before his eyes flutter and he pulls his head back further. There is no where else to go, just like they've always had their backs against the wall. Hannibal's legs are pressed against the side of the bed, cornered, his eyes deadly and his expression hard; he tries to turn slowly away from Will, to get out from between Will's body and the bed. Undeterred, Will grasps Hannibal's wrist tightly, feeling the bones rub in his crushing grip, forcing Hannibal's face forward again with his other hand. “Will, please. You insist on tempting fate,” Hannibal’s voice is strained, barely above a whisper, coiled for whatever is to come, “It benefits you to remember that my compassion for you, although inconvenient, is not absolute.” It is the weakest attempt at a lie they’ve ever tried, one last grasp at saving face. Will smiles knowingly, indulgently, listening to Hannibal’s shuddering inhale.

“You won’t hurt me, not anymore” Will concludes with certainty, “I think, for once, you’re afraid I’ll hurt you. Sit down.” The power Will has is all the more apparent when Hannibal slowly complies, looking up at him from the bed. “My boundaries are not to interact with you at my own whim. I needed space to…to clear my head. I needed time to process this. To process everything. You intended for us to be here with Abigail, we would’ve been here a few years by now. Or at least somewhere. Abigail would be graduating college soon.”

Hannibal nods once in understanding and acknowledgement, his eyes glued up on Will’s face, “You’re hurt—” He raises a hand when Hannibal takes a breath to interject, “let me finish. You’re hurt, probably confused, maybe scared. That is my doing and I apologize. This is very new to us both and I shouldn’t have shut you out.”

Hannibal sucks a deep breath in through his nose, blinks slowly, “I agreed to try to respect your boundaries, Will. I did not realize that would require absolute restraint from even being in your company, considering we interacted professionally and friendly for quite some time prior to our night with the dragon. You never expressed such hesitation to me entering your personal space, now I find a reluctance to--”

“We were hardly friends, Hannibal. We were… conjoined. It was a process of melting into one another and becoming one. From that night in your kitchen, one teacup shattered and another came together. It was never friendship.” He had interrupted Hannibal again, a power play move that Will knows is risky at best. The objective is to test the limits, test his control over the situation, test just how far he can extend his influence over Hannibal now. He suspects its far more endless than either of them know. Yet.

Yet, Hannibal seems withdrawn, careful, and Will feels warmth spread through his limbs. “I’m unsure where that would leave us now,” Hannibal admits, and Will can tell it takes great effort for him to say. This is Hannibal making an effort, _negotiating boundaries_ that his very nature struggles to conceptualize, “I understand your reservations to become lovers. I’d never push for such intimacies beyond what you are comfortable with, but I fail to grasp why you’d stay if you have no interest in our engagement at all. I require...” Will raises and eyebrow as he seems to fumble with his words, looking down at his hands in his lap for a moment before looking up again with the same hard, unforgiving gaze, "A certain level of intimacy. You are family, Will. I suppose this isn't so much as a boundary as it is a request. If you cannot fulfill the request in any way, perhaps the boundary then is to give me space. We maintain separate existences that cross in common areas at agreed upon times. Meals, maybe, predetermined conversational times where we can engage and interact more cordially, without any pretenses or expectations of the other. I am not interested in a relationship that is determined by your mood."

Will doesn't look away from his severe expression. He knows he can push Hannibal away now and he will shut down. The timer on this is running out and self-destruction is imminent. There is an edge to Hannibal's words, an uncertainty and discomfort that is deep-seated in anxiety, something totally other to Hannibal. “Are you going to kill again?” Hannibal lets his breath out, his face twitching, caught off guard and clearly annoyed. Will isn’t going to make this easy on him.

“Yes, I had hoped we would together. Eventually.”

Will reaches for his chin again, tilting his head back to force him to make eye contact again, “What if I said no? No, you cannot kill again and no I would not kill with you.”

Hannibal’s mouth parts, and Will can feel the thread is stretched thin—Hannibal has expended all his emotional energy he can right now without Will offering any in return, “You said you didn’t want me to change who I was.”

“And if I changed my mind?” Will presses. He waits, prepared to wait a lot longer than he actually does.

“Then I would,” Hannibal says slowly, and Will feels him swallow tensely before continuing, “I would do whatever you asked of me, Will. If nothing came of the past few years, I learned of my mistake to try to predict and control you. It was you who controlled me the whole time.”

The kiss is searing, their teeth knocking together painfully when Will swoops down on him roughly. Hannibal grabs his sides, kissing him back just as roughly. There is relief soaking through their skin. Will sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s lip, sucking it into his mouth, reveling in the sound it pulls from Hannibal’s chest. “I want to kill together,” he whispers against Hannibal’s lips, “I want you covered in blood, like you were that night. I want to watch you come apart in every way.”

He doesn’t give Hannibal a chance to respond before he roughly pushes them both back onto the bed, shoving his tongue against the other man’s wetly. Teeth sink into soft flesh, dragging Hannibal’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucking, reveling in the way Hannibal clutches at his sides tightly and seems to melt against him. They’re panting when they break apart for air, and Will goes right for his neck, biting roughly just to feel the other man squirm, “You’re mine now, don’t forget. We will kill when I want to. You’ll behave otherwise. No keeping secrets, and if you want me to pay attention to you, say something,” he whispers against the other man’s skin, offering a light kiss in penance. "We will not just talk scheduled and restrained. Our becoming will transcend us into the last phase of our transformation-- our ultimate form that can only be achieved together."

“Anything you say, Will,” Hannibal moans, arching his back up to grind his hips into Will’s, “Is this your forgiveness?” He sounds absolutely ruined, voice rough and breathy. Will leans back to look him in the eyes, wrapping his hand around Hannibal’s throat, admiring the way the other man’s eyes widen just a fraction and then flutter.

“I will never forgive you, but we can try again. Time can reverse,” Will whispers, gently brushing Hannibal’s short hair back from his face with his free hand, too lovingly when compared to how roughly he touches him otherwise. Fingers finding the partially healed gash in his head, their noses brushing together, Will swears he’s seeing right into Hannibal’s skull. The hair hasn’t grown back over the wound, nor is it long enough to cover it yet—it is ugly and red, Will wants to rip it open and peak inside. “Another teacup can dare to come together, if we let it. You’re in my head, Hannibal. I want to be inside yours.” Will’s fingertips enunciate the words by pushing slightly against the soft scar, his face just far enough back to watch Hannibal’s eyes waver, then flutter at the pain and pleasure of it. The thin string of control strains and quivers.

“I want you to be,” Hannibal admits breathlessly, mouth parting on a sigh. There is a fevered desperation in his eyes now, unspoken truths lingering in their depths.

Will smiles knowingly, tightening his grip slightly, “Good. Tell me what you want, then. Be honest.”

There is a pause, a brief flash of hesitation. “I want to wake up with you. Share meals, share beds. I want—” his voice breaks slightly, the thread on his control snapping, and when his eyes open, they’re moist, “I want to feel as though you do not regret your decision to stay here with me. I want us to forge a new life, Will, together. I do not wish to be merely two people who tolerate the other. Perhaps I’m not the man who’d be fit for the life you may think you want, but I’ve come to want to be wherever you are in whatever capacity you will have me.”

The tendons in Hannibal’s neck protrude against his fingers; Will senses Hannibal’s distress, and that alone is intoxicating, “You’re in love with me.”

Hannibal huffs a quiet laugh, “Probably in the purest sense of the word. Perhaps love is wanting exactly that and nothing more. Only taking what is offered freely, only giving what you have to offer.”

“Your wants are rather… domestic.”

A shadow passes over Hannibal’s sharp features, “I think about us covered in blood, too. I think about you licking it off of me, watching you take the light out of someone’s eyes,” his own close, clearly caught up in the moment, Will feels their erections press needily against one another’s. “You’ve never been more beautiful than you were that night, under the moonlight. No matter what I tell you Will, no matter how many times we wake up entangled, you mustn’t forget who and what I am. I can only offer you myself and I can only promise to try, but nature always takes its course. I will misstep, I will disappoint you, we will fight. You’ll come to learn I’m unfortunately very human, as much as I am other in the most carnal sense. Blood has dried on my hands and absorbed into my pores.”

A million things cross through Will’s mind. He thinks about pressing down harder, wonders if Hannibal would stop him or if he could stop himself. He thinks about getting up, retrieving the stash of documents he’d hidden away, and never looking back. The silence must stretch long enough for Hannibal to be concerned, because his eyes open and one single tear drips down the side of his face. Without thinking, Will chases it with his tongue, his mouth pressing against the other man’s ear, “I’m going to make love to you now.”

Hannibal tenses dramatically, his fingers pulling Will closer, as if he wishes to share a body with him. The thread that had been tautly pulled between them finally gives and snaps, and Will knows he'd pushed as far as he can without pushing too far and actually pushing him away. “Yes,” is all he says in agreement, but the tremble in his voice gives him away.

On instinct, Will sits up and goes into the drawer, finding what he knew would be there. Hannibal works off his pajamas and slides back onto the bed, watching Will hungrily when he does the same. They fit together like a puzzle, two pieces of a whole that belonged together for so long, waiting to be reunited.

There is something raw when they look at each other, wasting little time with foreplay before Will presses inside him, probably too quickly. That is what they will always do, hurt each other. No matter how much talking, negotiating, planning, intent… they will always hurt each other. Will finds himself enamored with the reality that he can hurt Hannibal in every sense, the way Hannibal winces when he pushes in roughly. Finds himself even more enamored with the reality that this knowledge gentles him. Cornered beasts are best tamed with kindness. Kindness is in Will’s nature, even if it has never been and will never be in Hannibal’s. He slows his movements to rocking, then, letting them both adjust. He had said love, and he was not going to hide it behind sharp comments and rough treatment. It is impossible to know just how much time they have, but Will wants to assume it’s enough to allow them both the normalcy of love, even just for a few moments. In hours, days, weeks, or even years, they can burn the world, probably burning themselves at the same time. That destructive curiosity burns in Hannibal, but it is a flame in Will too. Right now, though, they kiss each other warmly, breathless at the unfamiliar sensations on their skin and in their brains.

They will hurt each other again, sooner rather than later, but they don’t have to do it now. That can wait until tomorrow.


	7. Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consent: To give permission or express acceptance of an action or situation. Permission given explicitly, with complete knowledge and understanding of what is happening and without deception or manipulative ruses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter (as of this moment, I could be lying though, maybe more if people are still interested).
> 
> Enjoy :)

They break their promises a few weeks later. Domestic bliss blankets the house peacefully at first. They explore boundaries almost gently, almost at the pace of a normal relationship. They give each other space, and carefully enter each other’s orbit. When Hannibal cooks, Will casually comes to stand behind him, hands gentle on the other man’s hips. Hannibal cautiously presses kisses to Will’s cheek in passing. They talk about almost mundane things during the day, and only press deeper under the cover of darkness in their bed. Will bites at Hannibal’s lips, his fingers prod the rough bullet wound just to hear Hannibal suck air through his teeth, “I want to take you apart,” Will whispers to him, and he usually does. To Hannibal’s credit, the pain never seems to stop his excitement, and it only fuels Will’s further. Will’s empathy feeds him a constant loop of their emotions—he knows when he’s pushing boundaries too far, knows when he isn’t pushing them far enough. There is a distinct air of unspoken consent, the very premise of which is embedded in no consent at all; their arrangement largely consists of Will doing exactly what he is allowed, since they both know Hannibal could stop him if he really wanted to. However, it doesn’t escape Will that Hannibal’s handle on control mostly exists in his mind, and to give his body to Will like this is to submit his mind in a way that pushes his boundaries to their limit.

It’s obvious when pins him to the bed, whispering headily how he dreamed of tying Hannibal down breaking his chest open to see his heart beating inside and Hannibal merely raises his arms above his head and encourages Will to use one of their belts. It’s even more obvious in the way the other man is so unfiltered with his reactions to Will’s ministrations. The carefully constructed, stoic façade crumbles around them as if it was so fragile to begin with. “Tell me what you think about when I have you like this?” Will insists, pressing his palm over Hannibal’s eyes to cover them. Hannibal’s mouth parts on a breath, tilting his chin up to seek Will’s mouth over his, huffing when Will’s lips never meet his.

“I think about being entirely at your mercy. I struggle to give you the honesty and emotional vulnerability you want, I can give you—” his breath hitches when Will spreads his legs with his free hand and hooks an arm under one of his knees to fully stretch him open, “—as much of my body as you want, at least.”

Will laughs slightly, letting go of Hannibal completely and letting his leg fall. Hannibal blinks up at him and lifts his head, adjusts his arms in their binding. It’s obvious how much of his control and entire self he has lost to Will when he immediately looks forlorn from the bed, as if Will would leave him there. For a moment, he considers it, just to see what would happen, but the way Hannibal looks after him, eyes half closed, cock flush against his lower belly, and his body trembling slightly spurs Will towards Hannibal’s discarded tie. Hannibal’s body immediately responds to the closeness again, arching slightly to press them chest to chest, but Will presses him back down onto the bed and waits for him to still again before he grants him a chaste and quick kiss against his lips. The soft fabric of the tie rubs against Hannibal’s nipples and up against his throat, “You’re so sensitive,” Will muses, letting the fabric trail over Hannibal’s cheek, smiling when Hannibal moans slightly, “I never imagined you’d be like this.”

“Did you fantasize about my sexual urges often?”

Will smirks down at him, then slips the tie under the back of Hannibal’s head and ties it over his eyes. “I was curious, at times… how you were. With Alana. And Bedelia.” It comes out more annoyed than he anticipated, but he doesn’t care enough to hide that from Hannibal anymore.

“I enjoyed pleasuring them—the female body is such a marvel. It’s a beautiful instrument that can be so responsive to the right touch. Our encounters were sensual but never intense—a means to an end, if you will.”

Will straddles Hannibal’s thighs, letting fingertips play through the soft chest hair, “Poor Alana and Bedelia. I’m sure they thought you were so passionately interested in them. Did you cum? Or were you so unfulfilled you just jerked off after?”

Hannibal exhales slowly, turning his face to rub against Will’s fingers when they touch his cheek, “I did cum. Sex has many components—to be really fulfilling, it often requires emotional and physical stimulation and intimacy. Sex and masturbation have always just been physical for me. I was never interested in any prolonged sexual attention and foreplay for myself, especially not bondage.”

Will leans back and considers him, so still and accepting, He could cut his throat right now and Hannibal would probably kiss him while he bled out, “You let me take a lot, for someone who never put themselves emotionally or vulnerably into sex.”

“Were you sexually vulnerable with your wife, Will? Were you emotionally vulnerable? Did you let her pleasure you and fulfill you?”

Deflection is a key component of Hannibal’s coping mechanisms; when pushed too far, deflection was safe—some lazy psychiatry. “I tried to be. Sometimes it felt like I was.”

He slides off of Hannibal’s hips and pushes his legs apart to kneel between them, his eyes flashing up at an intense wave of distress that crashes and recedes just as quickly, but Hannibal’s face betrays nothing. Brows furrowed, Will gently rubs his thumb on Hannibal’s thigh, “What stopped you from having fulfilling sex?”

Hannibal’s mental retreat is almost physical, it always is, but Will slides his hands up to cup his balls to bring his attention back, “Don’t go inside.”

There is a long silence, then Hannibal inhales shallowly, “I haven’t had any investment in the people I was intimate with. My earliest encounters were not consensual and my later encounters were never with someone I was emotionally invested in. Vulnerability allows for pitfalls in the mind, Will.”

There is a hole that opens in Will’s heart at the words, an intense ache following it that stings his eyes with immediate tears. Hannibal sniffs the air, “Are you crying, Will?” He sounds so indifferent, distant from his own revelations, compartmentalizing in a way Will almost envies. It is Will who pictures a much younger Hannibal, orphaned and alone, used and abused in a crime against humanity.

“Why me then? What is different about me?” he doesn’t answer Hannibal’s question, knows the other man already knows the answer anyway.

“You are the piece of my morality that was fundamentally missing from my genes. You’re the purity of the world that manages to hold onto a shred of good despite being submerged in all the evil the world has to offer. You are so uniquely and authentically you as I am myself, and despite being so different, you are my reflection. My body craves you desperately, it reacts naturally to your presence and your gravity.”

Will wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, scoffing slightly, “Fuck, Hannibal. All I do is push and pull at you and then take what I want.”

“I know. I’m always eager to see what else you’ll come up with.”

————————————————

There are other times, though. Times where they manage to find peace between them and inside them that they can share together.

Some nights, they lay side by side and talk with their eyes closed, exploring memory palaces. “What stopped you from visiting?” Hannibal muses, seated beside Will at the Norman Chapel.

“I visited in my dreams, I thought your memory palace would be enough.”

Hannibal is quiet for a long time after that, “Love and hate are often awfully similar. We crossed the barriers of both many times, Will. You entered my memory palace and moved all the furniture around, and then you left.”

Slowly, Will blinks his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. When he turns his head, Hannibal is doing the same. The defensive accusations of how Hannibal did that and then some die on his lips, and instead he studies the other man’s profile, seeing the way his brows knit as if the revelation surprises him just as much. “I missed you too,” he admits, “I think it’s time we move the furniture back, maybe make a few more rooms we can share.”

A shadow passes over Hannibal’s face, and when he turns his head to look at Will, the monster lurks in his depths.

—————————————

It goes right until it goes wrong.

Will picks a man the following day when they stroll during dusk, his ears perked towards a tense confrontation he cannot understand. He looks to Hannibal, “He’s telling the woman he’ll kill her if she embarrasses him again. Demanding sexual acts.” Hannibal looks at Will neutrally, clearly unfazed by the statement. Will can’t tell if he is more angry at the man or at Hannibal’s indifference. They look back over as he grabs her by the arm, pulling her roughly down the sidewalk.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and this time when he looks at Hannibal, its accusatory, “You have no interest in stopping him?”

Hannibal tilts his head, his eyes scanning Will’s face, “I have interest in you wanting to stop him.”

Something in Will snaps, his hands grabbing the collar of Hannibal’s shirt and pushes him back into an alley. “She’s being abused,” he hisses, tightening his hold on the material and shoving Hannibal into the wall.

Unfazed, Hannibal raises his eyebrows, “I know.”

“What if it was me?”

Hannibal bares his teeth, “No one could get that close to you. I thought you wanted me as I was, without my person suit.”

Will feels a whirlwind of emotions, he can feel the woman’s fear, feel the rage burn from her abuser, feel Hannibal’s disinterest, his own fury—“I want to hunt him.”

“We are not vigilantes.”

Will shakes him, “He’s going to… he plans to kill her.”

“Some might say you abuse me, Will,” its antagonistic, clearly meant to instigate.

It works, “This isn’t funny, Hannibal. Rough sex isn’t abuse.”

Hannibal smiles at him, crooked teeth and all, “Perhaps not, if there is consent. Have I consented, or merely accepted? Is it always sexual? What would you call this, then? Holding me against a brick wall in a dark alleyway.”

Abruptly, Will lets go and steps back, “Fuck you, Hannibal,” he hisses. He turns all at once, moving automatically to follow the man and woman. Hannibal silently follows, watching at a distance as Will stalks behind them for a few blocks.

The woman goes into a dive bar, the man lingers outside, smoking, before he ducks down one of the dark side streets. Dusk has turned to night, and the small, poorly maintained streets have little to no lights on them. Will moves like he’s someone else when he enters the alley behind the man, kicking his legs out from under him.

Hannibal watches from the a few feet away as Will struggles with him, the glint of a knife flashing in his vision. He tenses, considering, to allow fate to take its course or to intervene. His heart decides, for the first time, and he steps forward to catch the man’s arm and twist the knife free before he can stab Will. Then he steps back and lets the other man finish the job, eyes gleaming with pride.


	8. Intuitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intuitive: Using or based on what one feels to be true even without conscious reasoning; instinctive actions or behaviors that are born from emotion that may be void of logic or reasoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, looks like 9 chapters to wrap this up. No really, 9 (maybe?)

He almost does, the man is out cold and Will stands over him, looking around and grabbing a piece of loose brick. He lifts it and freezes, panting to the point of hyperventilation. Panting turns to gasps, and Will falls back and off of the man.

“Will,” Hannibal says carefully, “Will, you’re having a panic attack, we have to go.” He has to drag Will back and out of the alley and across the street and into the darkness. “Breathe, Will.”

It subsides, slowly, but Hannibal keeps his arm tightly secured around Will until they make it back to the house.

“I couldn’t do it.”

Hannibal professionally focuses on Will’s scrapes, sitting him on the couch and going to get the first aid kit, “I know. That is probably for the best. Crimes of passion are often riddled with mistakes. A man like that will not bring attention to such an attack, and he never turned to see our faces.”

“You provoked me.”

“I merely pointed out the obvious.”

Will pushes his hands away, “No, you deliberately provoked me.”

Hannibal lets his hands fall, “I wanted to know what would happen.”

The first punch hits Hannibal hard enough to clank his teeth together and rattle his bones, “You _promised_ you’d try. We said no more manipulation, no more lies. How do you become… like that? How can both sides of you exist at once?”

Flexing his jaw, he turns his dark eyes back to Will, “Dear Will, these two sides are one in the same,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and he looks at Will with something akin to awe, “Your anger is intoxicating—you’re beautifully dangerous when you’re enraged.”

The kiss that follows is violent, Will’s fingers tightening harshly on Hannibal’s wrists and dragging him from the chair to pin him to the floor. “I don’t abuse you, I own you, there is a difference.”

His knee digs between Hannibal’s thighs hard enough to hurt, and Hannibal smiles darkly, “So own me, then.”

Will sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s throat with a groan, “Let us hunt, for real, together. I want to lick the blood from your skin and feel that raw energy course through you when you rip someone apart.”

Hannibal says nothing in response, and Will rips into his neck with his teeth again, struggles to get Hannibal from his shirt, then ravishes his shoulder. He’d never been one to be a rough lover before, would never dream of treating anyone how he treats Hannibal now. The urges to take and take seep from his pores, and Will wonders if Hannibal feeds him these urges from his own brain, hardwired so tightly to Will’s nervous system that he processes these needs as his own.

He licks the blood from Hannibal’s shoulder, scratching his fingers down tense flanks, pushing his knee more roughly between the other man’s legs. “I’d cut you,” he whispers directly into Hannibal’s ear, “here,” he drags his finger down Hannibal’s sternum to his bellybutton, “here…” he turns and drags his finger just under it.

“We’d bare matching scars,” Hannibal slurs, his erection pressing hotly against Will’s thigh. Will feels Hannibal struggle to reach to his right, “use this.” Will flinches at the flash of silver, but Hannibal merely innocently offers him the scalpel from the toppled first aid kit.

Wil gives him an incredulous look, staring right into the blown ink of Hannibal’s pupils, his hair ruffled and in his eyes. “I was sensing your boundaries ended at extreme pain in sex.” They’d carefully avoided any real conversation about the nonconsensual encounters Hannibal had admitted to, but Will’s empathy had mentally drawn a line for himself in a silent knowing that those experiences would’ve involved a triggering amount of pain on a much younger person who was far less equipped to compartmentalize the way Hannibal seems to do now with such ease. 

Hannibal’s mouth quirks slightly, “You’re intuitive. I never expressed that boundary, merely I feel if we were to combine both it would be too overwhelming for us both, mainly you. Was that your goal here, to have sex? Or was it to beat me?”

There is a dark pit in Will’s stomach, a hole that threatens to consume him. Hannibal seems unflinchingly calm, aside from his slightly shallowed breathing. Curiously, Will sits back on his knees and reaches to press two fingers to Hannibal’s throat: his pulse is slightly elevated, perhaps with adrenaline, but it is nowhere near as raised as Will’s. “I don’t know, both maybe. I think… I think maybe…” He trails off, frowning.

“That you’ve let your friend in the alley enter your headspace? That you’re acting on his impulses towards the woman you saved?” Hannibal murmurs helpfully.

“I didn’t save her,” Will spits, “People like that don’t stop as long as they’re alive. I feel… fluid. Maybe I’m melting.”

Hannibal presses the scalpel into Will’s hand again, his eyes shining, “Then flow, Will. I’m here, with you. Who is more deserving of your pain than me?”

Will stares down at him, “I don’t trust you to stop me. I don’t think you—”

“I wouldn’t let you kill me, Will. I ache to see unleashed and uninhibited by social expectations and prying eyes, but I wouldn’t let you kill me,” he reassures.

It does nothing to calm him, “Going too far doesn’t mean just killing you, Hannibal. You’re not above pain, you’re not immune to it. I wouldn’t want you in your memory palace or hiding in your mind, I’d want you here and present with me.”

A few beats of silence, and then Hannibal reaches and touches Will’s cheek, “I won’t go inside, Will. Will you?”

Breath coming faster, Will turns towards Hannibal’s palm, “No.” Then on instinct, he grabs Hannibal’s hair and jerks his neck to the side, “I won’t go inside. But maybe I’ll open you up and just take a peak.”

Hannibal’s entire body jerks when Will presses the sharp edge into Hannibal’s side, then he moans. The first cut is hesitant, the next not so much. Will whispers things to him, nonsense that are half his own thoughts and half the thoughts of another. Twice, he holds Hannibal’s cheeks tightly and licks into his mouth while his fingers dig into the open wounds. Hannibal is mostly quiet, uncharacteristic in any other situation besides sex and suffering, “You promised you wouldn’t go inside.”

Glossy eyes look back at him, “I’m here,” he shudders, struggling for coherency, “I feel everything.”

“How does it feel?” Will presses, biting roughly at Hannibal’s nipple, the scalpel slicing through Hannibal’s belly like butter.

“Intoxicating. Numbing. Overwhelming,” Hannibal’s voice cracks, his muscles tensing dramatically when Will presses his knee crushingly hard into his crotch when he tries to shift to adjust himself under the other man’s weight, “How do you feel?”

“Powerful,” Will whispers directly against Hannibal’s lips, “Alive. Clear.” Then, without thinking, he presses the sharp end right under Hannibal’s chin, right against the soft flesh of his throat.

Hannibal’s eyes widen briefly, then he calms slightly. His hands carefully clench at Will’s shirt, feeling it wet with his own blood. “Careful, Will,” he warns, his voice is strained, “Too deep and the laceration will—”

The blade slices, he feels it pierce the skin, but it doesn’t hurt. Will is hyperventilating over him, his eyes wide and unseeing. Hannibal quickly lifts his hand and feels the wound—nothing but a flesh wound. “Will? Stay with me.”

Will’s eyes clear slightly, and he leans back suddenly, dropping the blade and running his hand through his hair. “Oh _God_. Oh fuck,” the panic hits quickly, his hands grabbing Hannibal’s throat and applying pressure.

“I’m alright,” Hannibal insists, the pain is intense, but nothing fatal. He tilts his head back and lets Will apply the pressure anyway, the pressure on his throat both comforting and horrifying, “You didn’t cut deep enough to do any real damage.”

The hot tears flow down Will’s face, then come the gasping sobs, “Hannibal, oh fuck. Fuck, why didn’t you stop me?”

Hannibal reaches up, pushes Will’s hair from his face, “I wanted to see what would happen.”

Gut wrenching sobs wrack Will’s entire body, and when he looks at Hannibal’s passive but confused expression, he cries even harder. “You’re… You…” He struggles for air and the words, “We can’t be like this, Hannibal. Fuck, you can’t keep winding me up and watching me go. _Please_ , I need to trust you, I know this is hard for you to conceptualize and put into practice, but I need us to try.”

Hannibal swallows under his hand, and he lets up—the wound has almost stopped bleeding already, and the others have already started to slow. “I’m afraid we are both not stable enough for this, Will. I fear you have expectations of me that I cannot consistently meet, because of our differing perceptions of what is normal and acceptable.”

Will barks a laugh, “Normal? This… this isn’t normal. This is when normal people would call the cops and I’d be hauled off to jail and you’d be in the hospital. Please, we have to try to treat each other differently.”

He sits up, helps Hannibal up, surveys the wounds. They clean up each other, standing in the shower together while Will offers kisses to Hannibal’s skin in retribution and apology. Hannibal crushes sleeping pills into Will’s water when he isn’t looking, hours later, when they’ve been bandaged and cleaned. Will drifts off quickly, his brain warm and his body warmer from where Hannibal is wrapped around him.

\----------------------

He wakes up to the smell of food in the air. It’s already bright out, the bed is empty on the other side. His head feels heavy even though he slept, and he stumbles down the hall to the kitchen. On the table, the man from the alley is splayed on a large piece of plastic. He is gagged and unconscious, his body opened wide enough to see right into his abdominal cavity. Will looks from the man to Hannibal as he cooks. Hannibal moves the pan off the burner and shuts it off, the kidney clearly cooked to perfection.

“Good morning, Will,” he says cheerily, turning to offer a crooked smile. He’s dressed in sweats, his upper body bare. Will sees he’s replaced the bandages on his wounds, the one on his throat left uncovered. A light bruise has formed on his jaw from where Will hit him.

“Good morning, I see you’ve… been busy.”

Hannibal turns to stand next to him, over the man on the table, “Yes. After you slept, I went to track down our friend Antonio. He wasn’t hard to find. He returned to the alley, chose a prostitute for his aggression this time. Didn’t even bother to go freshen up from the first lesson he did not learn.”

Will’s brows pull together, “He never left?”

“Apparently not,” Will looks at the man’s bruised face and torso, “He is unspeakably rude.”

Will turns to Hannibal, “Where is the prostitute? Is she okay?”

Hannibal glances at him, offering a soft smile, “I assure you, he is fine.”

Will’s eyes widen, his eyes traveling up and down Hannibal’s body. There are fresh bandages on his back, a cut on his cheek, gauze taped to his shoulder—nothing that he had left, “You? You went there and…you lured him out as a prostitute?”

Hannibal shrugs, “I had my suspicions. He expresses a lot of aggression towards women, so I figured I would offer. Turns out he hates men just as much.”

“You let him touch you?” Hannibal turns to face him fully then, revealing a significantly darkening bruise around his eye, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“I assure you, it was just a kiss to convince him. His plan was to rape me, my plan was to surprise you.”

Will’s face heats at the thought of anyone else touching Hannibal, let alone kissing him. Hannibal continues, calmly, “An apology for yesterday. I knew you regretted not finishing the job, I wanted to give you the opportunity. Before he went to sleep, I asked him what he planned to do with the woman. He informed me that is his wife and that he sexually and physically abuses her regularly, and that he planned to kill her eventually. I think he was honest, with a little prompting, of course.”

Nothing registers for Hannibal that Will would be mad about the circumstances, but his heart warms at the notion that Hannibal sought any way to try to make it up to him, even in his own way. Hannibal waits expectantly, clearly expecting a reaction, “Most people would get flowers.”

Hannibal smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, then he disappears into the other room and returns with an assortment of fresh flowers, “Well, it’s a good thing I got you both then, just in case.”

Will feels his throat tighten with emotion, his eyes on the flowers, then up on Hannibal’s face. The other man looks calm and relaxed, _open,_ a small smile on his lips when he presents the flowers to Will. Will slowly looks over his face, the bruise around his eye, on his mouth, then he takes the flowers in one hand and steps forward and kisses him. Hannibal, untethered from the constraints of blending in, of hiding, was sickeningly distorted. Chiyoh had been right, his application of social norms and expectations in a relationship could not be applied to Hannibal. Couldn’t be applied to either of them really. Will resigns to put that away. Hannibal sighs into his mouth, pressing close. The man on the table groans and they break apart. “No one has brought me flowers before, or… a person.”

“I take great pleasure in being the first,” then, he turns to the other man on the table, “Now Will, how will you enjoy your gift?” Will isn’t sure if he means the meat or himself. There was an entire sea existing within Hannibal—a constant crash of waves and changing tides. They had shifted again, drastically, given such freedom to be with Will. When Hannibal glances over at him to find Will studying his profile, he offered the candid, crooked smile that showed his sharp and uneven teeth—one of the only imperfect things about him physically— and Will can’t help but smile back at the softness in his expression. To be granted the insight into the sea within was a treasure, one Hannibal did not give ever before and probably never could again. It was Will’s to use how he wanted, and part of him still wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He could decide another time.


	9. Remarkable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remarkable: Worthy of attention, striking, exceeding all expectations of exceptional or extraordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. you REALLY twisted my arm. I lied-- lets shoot for 13 chapters and see where we are at then.

Over dinner, its almost like they’re back in Maryland together. Hannibal sets the table and Will sits there awkwardly while Hannibal presents him the meal he made from the gift he’d presented Will with. Only this time, there are no suits, no elaborate centerpieces aside from the flowers Hannibal had given Will with the gift, and far cheaper wine than usually graced their palates. What isn’t different is how Hannibal stares at him take his first bite, and how Will grumbles “it’s delicious, thank you,” to which Hannibal offers a grin before taking a bite himself. The pretenses are gone, and it is the first real, true meal they have shared in their new home and in their new life.

The meal, mostly, was a celebration of another rebirth of theirs—the rebirth of their relationship.  
_  
The night before, Will had mechanically removed the man’s teeth one by one—retribution for the bite he found out he left on Hannibal’s shoulder—then his hands, in retaliation for punching him in the face hard enough to bruise his eye. Hannibal had been amused, his eyes sparkling when Will looked over at him, “Are you extracting revenge for me, Will?”_

_The man was fading in and out of consciousness by that point, and Will studied his bloodied face and open abdominal cavity for a moment, “Doing bad things to bad people feels good,” he echoes._

_“Shouldn’t it feel good that he’d hurt me, then?”_

_Will hesitates, then he’s angry, and his desire to end this outweighs any other impulse, so much so that he slits the man’s throat in one motion. Blood spills from the wound and onto the tarp laid out to assist with their cleanup, but not before it covers the rest of Will’s shirt. The knife clanks to the floor and then he stands, “Someone like him isn’t worthy of hurting you, Hannibal.”_

_They had faced each other then, Hannibal’s eyes strangely open and innocent looking, “Does it make you feel good when its—”_

_This isn’t therapy and Hannibal no longer has the upper hand, and it was almost too easy how Will shoves him back into the wall and pins him there. “Enough asking me questions you already know the answer to,” Will hissed, “You cheated on me.”_

_Hannibal huffs a quiet laugh, their faces close enough that Will feels it on his lips, “That’s very possessive of you, Will.”_

_“Possessive? So, I’m free to fuck anyone and you’ll… cook the two of us breakfast the next day?”_

_Hannibal’s eyes darken, assuming that reptilian stare that used to make the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand up, “I don’t believe I said anything about fucking anyone. I merely encouraged him to follow me with the pretense that there would be sex.”_

_Will had pressed his fingers into the bruise under Hannibal’s eye then, “There were other options besides kissing him.”_

_Hannibal shrugged slightly, “I was also unaware you’d take this so offensively. You hardly express an interest in kissing me, or any intimate contact unless you’re physically overpowering me or having sex with me. You’re also still married, technically, I believe.”_

_Another baiting, antagonistic point. Since they’d negotiated their boundaries about a month earlier, Will hadn’t hidden from Hannibal anymore. That didn’t mean they’d immediately find a rhythm with each other either. Hannibal often engaged Will, touching his hand, pressing kisses to his cheek, offering his elbow when they’d venture outside. Will responded stiffly, mostly, a fact that he knew didn’t escape Hannibal even if it had gone unmentioned. They only shared a bed about half the time—never without sex and when Will would retreat to his own room, he would pretend to be oblivious to the hurt hidden in Hannibal’s eyes. “You’re expecting me to… act like your boyfriend. Your husband, even. It’s a lot to take on all at once.”_

_Hannibal shifts under his hold and Will lightens his grip but doesn’t put space between them. Instead, he gently runs his palms down to Hannibal’s neck, holding it carefully. “Interesting that you consider physically engaging with me in a nonviolent and nonsexual manner to mean you’re my boyfriend or my husband, although I’m not opposed to either of those titles.”_

_Will feels his face get hot, and he starts to lose his steam like he always did. The new Will isn’t all that different from the old one, “You don’t want to marry me.”_

_“For someone with an empathy disorder and an astute, insightful understanding of the fundamentals of human thought and behavior, you’re remarkably dense sometimes.”_

_The awkwardness and hilarity of the situation—standing in a blood-soaked kitchen, both of them dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts, Hannibal basically asking to marry him—strikes him as inappropriately funny, and a laugh bubbles out of his chest and he steps back to put space between them._

_Hannibal grabs his hips and pulls him forward again, ducking his face to try to make eye-contact with Will, “I plan to spend the rest of my life with you, Will. Even if fate and circumstance try to separate us again, I will find my way back to you. Unfortunately for you, this means the last opportunity to be free of me passed when you pulled me from the waves. You bonded us for life in that moment, Will. A bond that is stronger than any marriage or arbitrary relationship title could ever be.”_

_Will’s face burns, but he forces himself to relax into Hannibal’s arms, resting against him fully. They’re quiet for a moment before Hannibal adds, “I did, however, find “Murder Husbands” to be a rather accurate and frankly adorable term of endearment for us. I wouldn’t be opposed to making that more official.”_

_Will, ever the changed man, leaned back to peer up at him, “Your sense of humor is always a treat, Hannibal, but too soon. Maybe stick to Cannibal puns and extended metaphors. You also gave me my original documents back.”_

_Hannibal smiles warmly at him, the skin around his eyes crinkling when he gently pushes Will’s hair from his face, “I was merely exploring your intent. You’re lucky to have found a partner who isn’t derailed by your constant deflection and dodgy rejection.”_

_Will’s cheeks flush even more, and he hates how easily thrown off balance he is by this creature before him, “I’m not deflecting or rejecting, you’re just as… intense in this as you are in anything else. No idea why that is surprising but here we are.”_

_“What classifies something as a relationship for you, Will? We have sex often, live together, often sleep together—most would consider that key ingredients for a relationship. Unless we are missing other ingredients, such as the love and domestic desire that factors in. If so, I think we are not on the same page.”_

_Will had pressed forward and kissed him again, sweetly, before speaking, “We aren’t missing anything, you’re just… passionate.”_

_“Passion is good, gets the blood pumping,” he whispers, his mouth seeking another kiss, “You certainly don’t lack passion yourself. I sense a staggering amount of passion when you bruise my wrists and hip bones as you press inside me.”_

_Will moans into Hannibal’s mouth and presses closer, “I… We are more than that, you know.”_

_Hannibal hadn’t responded to that verbally, but instead had pressed the hot outline of his erection against Will’s thigh. They’d had messy but genuine sex that night, without Will ripping into Hannibal’s flesh even once. There was no bloodshed, at least not their own. What had been more important, though, was the way didn’t immediately pull out and away from Hannibal when they were both spent and panting. Instead, he had carefully laid his chest against Hannibal’s back, and buried his face into the other man’s neck. Ever responsive to the contact, Hannibal let himself be crushed into the sheets, obliged eagerly when Will slithered his arms around Hannibal’s to trap them to his torso and pin him to the bed. “You’re surprisingly into being restrained, even like this,” Will comments quietly, nosing behind Hannibal’s ear and kissing the soft skin there._

_“It is a relatively nice change of pace, although I’m fairly certain I could extract myself if I wanted to.”_

_Will laughed, snagging Hannibal’s earlobe in his lips and pulling gently, “You sound so confident you’re the stronger one, but we’ve never really tested that theory.”_

_Hannibal turns his face to rest his cheek on the mattress, “No, I suppose we haven’t, have we?” he muses. In a blink, he twists and rolls them both with ease, breaking the hold Will had on him getting on top of him to reverse their positions. Will looks up at the man pinning his back to the bed, his wrist pinned with one hand, and the other forearm firmly pressed against his chest. Hannibal’s hair had grown longer, hanging down slightly and unevenly from where it never did grow back over the scar. He moved with the grace of a practiced predator but looked down at Will with eyes full of affection and admiration. The playfulness should be disheartening, but instead Will finds the wolfish, deviant smirk endearing._

_“If you resist too much, you’ll spoil the fun for both of us you know,” Hannibal huffed at that, letting off the pressure on his chest, and rising to go into the bathroom. Will hears the water run for a few minutes before Hannibal emerges, cleaned and fresh. He smiles gently when he sees Will is still laying on the bed waiting for him. Hannibal moves towards the bed slowly, shifting to rest beside Will, only for Will to pull him down to lay against his chest. Hannibal tensed slightly at that, still uncomfortable enough with being held and subordinate affection than he cared to let on, before he relaxed against Will and curls tighter against his chest._

_“It is fun, having you dominate me,” he offers, his eyes falling shut when Will gently combs through his hair, avoiding the sensitive scar on his head. Looking back on it, remembering the way Hannibal’s head had thudded against the rocks at least once that Will could recall, they’d been lucky that this scar was all that remained. In the unforgiving ocean, Will’s memory can recall the way Hannibal’s eyes had rolled with the brutal force of it—he was remarkable in his ability to resist succumbing to something as pedestrian as being knocked unconscious. Will had barely been able to resist the mundane concern that a head injury could leave a lasting impact on someone._

_“We could always explore it further,” Will teases, his fingers massaging into the tense muscles of Hannibal’s neck._

_“I’d be open to exploring that more, I’d also like to explore less carnal sides of our relationship more too,” his voice is breathy, sounding shockingly close to sleep, as Will massaged the back of his neck. Something swells in Will at that, and it feels almost natural the way he leans down and presses a kiss to the other man’s head, right against the puckered and taut skin of his scar._

_“Okay, you win. I’ll hold your hand more often,” he meant it like a joke, but his heart had seized for a moment when Hannibal responded by reaching up to take his free hand in response. With his other hand, Hannibal presses against his eyes and sighs. “Have you been sleeping better? You rub at your eyes a lot,” it seems to come out of nowhere, the thoughts, but there is a sudden pressing need to ask; he recalled that night he’d gone to Hannibal’s room, finding him reading in the early morning, the way he had rubbed his eyes. Recalled how Hannibal always seemed to be awake and watching him by the time he opened his own eyes, started evaluating all the times Hannibal had rubbed his eyes when he’d been reading. It was such a human behavior, so normal yet so uncharacteristic, that Will found himself surprised it took him so long to ask about it before._

_“My eyes hurt occasionally, and I get more frequent headaches than I ever did before. Sleeping is more elusive,” Hannibal admits, then he nuzzles against Will’s chest, practically purring when Will moves to press into his temples. That same dark guilt lingers in his stomach again._

_“I’m no doctor, but that sounds suspiciously like symptoms of a head injury.”_

_“I’m sure my license has been revoked but my experience as a doctor would make me inclined to agree,” Hannibal murmurs, “Some days are worse than others. It’s fairly common with head injuries to have some long-term side effects—head aches, neck pain, dizziness, anxiety, light-headedness, light sensitivity, blurred vision, sleep disturbances, ringing ears, vomiting.”_

_Will tenses, sitting up slightly, ignoring Hannibal’s irritated grumble at the movement, “Wait, Hannibal. Why didn’t you say something?”_

_“I would rather not worry you.”_

_Will scoffs, “Well, I’m worried. I haven’t exactly been gentle with you. You hid it from me.”_

_Hannibal peaks up at him tiredly, “Nothing we’ve done has caused any further damage to my head. Symptoms typically clear on their own.”_

_“Please don’t keep things like that from me, Hannibal. What can I do?” The guilt sears him, how selfishly he’d ignored the man since they’d arrived here. How he’d used Hannibal’s body out of anger and failed to even worry what pain he’d endured._

_“We have to tend to our friend in the other room,” Hannibal changes the subject, sitting up despite how tired he looked._

_Will reaches for him, “Hey, lay down. I’ll take care of him.”_

_Hannibal’s brows pulled together, “How would you plan to do that?”_

_Will thinks for a moment, “Let me display him for you. I’ll be sure it can’t be linked to us.”_

_Lecter squints at him thoughtfully, “We may have to move on earlier than we anticipated if you do that.”_

_Will is already out of bed, pushing Hannibal to lay back, finding little resistance, “I’ll be careful.”  
_

Now, he looked across the table at Hannibal and they smiled at each other. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I have a few ethnic meals I think you’d enjoy, a reflection of the culture,” he’s quiet then for a few moments while he chews, then he looks up at Will, “Freddie Lounds published an article about your display from last night. I believe she is here.”

Will raised his eyebrows, “Already?”

“It is best to move, especially for the first few years. Our appearances have changed just enough that we can pass at a distance, but I’m afraid we’d both be noticeable—you by your looks and me by my voice—and it’s best to avoid lingering too long while these details are fresh. I have a list of residences we can choose from, I chose this one. Perhaps you can choose the next?”

Will hadn’t answered then, but merely continued eating, leaving Hannibal to his own thoughts.

After dinner, they cleared the table together, Will taking note of the way Hannibal squinted eventually at the light and dimmed them in the kitchen as he washed the dishes. He didn’t offer to help further, and instead Will had showered and changed before going to meet Hannibal in his study. Hannibal was seated in front of the fire, looking far too eloquent for someone dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and no shirt. He had two glasses of wine on the table and a stack of papers. It jogged Will’s thoughts enough to turn him from the doorway and back to his closet before he confidently returned to the room.

He stood near the fire, conscious of Hannibal’s eyes on him. He looked down once more at his original documents—birth certificate, passport, social security card, driver’s license—and then tossed them into the fire where Will Graham would be cremated in his final resting place.

He turns to Hannibal and offers the sincerest look he can manage, entranced by the intent stare that meets his eyes. “Don’t ever question my devotion to you again,” he commands softly, “I didn’t need an out, Hannibal. I just needed time. That night on the beach, I thought for sure that was the end for you. I knew then I couldn’t go back to Molly or Jack, I was destined to be with you. Never insult me or us like that again.” 

Hannibal remains silent and follows him with his eyes and he moves to sit in the empty chair, “Will Graham is dead, and we rise from his ashes.” He leans forward then, ignoring Hannibal’s interpretation of what shock would be, and looks down at the documents listing properties and options. “I think we should work our way back north a bit. I believe we still owe Bedelia a visit?”

He looks up then, smiling slightly at the pure awe on Hannibal’s face and how the other man is speechless for a moment more before he clears his throat, “Chiyoh contacted me, she has been keeping tabs on her. I believe she returned to Italy."

“Probably not her smartest decision.”

Hannibal offers a small smile, “Perhaps not, unless she is waiting for us to pay her a visit. There is little purpose for her to run at this point.”

“The pigs are never fast enough to escape the slaughter,” Will comments, sipping his wine, “Sometimes they actually want to be caught.”

Hannibal reaches across the space between them for Will's hand, which Will takes without reservations, "You are truly a marvel, Will. You're remarkable in unfathomable ways."


	10. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confession: a formal admission of one's sins with repentance and desire of absolution, especially revealed privately; an admission or acknowledgment that one has done something that one is ashamed or embarrassed about; a formal admission of one's crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aiming for three more chapters! Let me know what you think, comments shamelessly fuel the ego :)

Three days later, Will is at the dock loading their boat with supplies again while Hannibal organizes their affairs in the house. They’d tracked the weather, and Will had determined that the 45-foot boat could make the journey. He planned to stop at the furthest point of Brazil to refill and restock before crossing, mapped out exactly what they would need. Hannibal had listened intently, watched every video Will showed him on sailing with great interest.

Will pretends he doesn’t notice how frequently Hannibal squints, or the clear discomfort he barely conceals when it flairs in his head. Will kicks himself for not noticing sooner. He promises to pay closer attention to the other man moving forward. He knows Hannibal rather not talk about it, knows it isn’t exactly appreciated when he wakes the night before to the bed empty and the sound of quiet puking from the bathroom that he goes to investigate. He can see it in Hannibal’s tired eyes when he looks up at Will from his place over the toilet that he’s suffering silently. Will says nothing when he gently rubs Hannibal’s back when he sits on the floor next to him.

They have to go, Will knows that—he only hopes that Hannibal will be okay for the long trip. He makes sure he packs more pillows and blankets. He stocks as much pain medication and anti-nausea pills that he can get his hands on, anticipating that at least one of them won’t be as comfortable along the trip.

When he comes back on the deck, the uneasy feeling of being watched settles over him and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. It’s an instinct that he knows well.

It seems all too perfect, the way Will drops what he’s doing and rushes off the boat and towards the house. Heart racing, he bursts through the door to their house, right into the kitchen. His senses had grown so accustomed to Hannibal, existing merely within the bounds of his gravitational pull, that his entire being responds naturally and automatically to even an inclination that something is wrong. It should be surprising that Freddie Lounds is standing over Hannibal, who stares up at her from the ground, right down the barrel of a shaking gun.

“Don’t fucking move,” Freddie gasps, trembling where she stands. Hannibal clutches his head, blood running down his cheek.

Will wants to throw up.

“You’re incredibly rude, Miss. Lounds,” he tries to sound confident, but his voice breaks on a gasp. The voice, the tone, is clearly not the Hannibal Lecter everyone would remember, and Will knows Freddie can sense his weakness like a shark to blood. Ever relentless, Hannibal struggles slightly to one foot. Never giving up, the bastard—Will wishes he would just do what he was told, for once.

“Stop moving,” she gasps, adjusting her aim at his head.

“Freddie,” Will says calmly, watching as Hannibal falls forward again, clutching his face. Clearly, he isn’t stable enough to stand or do much of anything—Freddie is smart enough to know that—and Will knows their only chance is to take her attention.

She turns, sharply, one hand pointing the gun at him, the other a can of mace. It’s clear she has no real plan besides to find them. Get the story. Will wonders if a part of her had hoped they wouldn’t be here so she wouldn’t have to decide what to do in a moment like this.

“Will Graham,” she says, only half surprised, “A two for one deal.”

Hannibal collapses to the floor further, moaning miserably, and Lounds falters, “What did you do to him, Freddie?”

“I barely touched him,” she stutters, “He… he came at me. Something is fucking wrong with him.”

Will glances between her and Hannibal, “What do you mean?”

“He _flinched_ when he went to grab me,” always so observant, Freddie Lounds, “What is wrong with him?”

Will weighs the pros and cons of lying, looking down at Hannibal who is trying to get it together, “Head injury,” he says finally.

Hannibal gets his bearings for a split second, moves suddenly, but not fast enough--- Lounds turns and maces him in the face. He goes down, hard, harder than usual. Pieces of Will splinter when he wants to stay rooted in place to see what happens, but wants to go to Hannibal’s side.

“Did you hit him in the head?” He watches Hannibal struggle for air, clawing at his face when he crumbles back against the floor.

“I didn’t know,” she says, clearly conflicted, the gun falling to her side when she looks at Hannibal with something awfully close to concern. She didn’t come here to kill them, even if she thought she wanted to. The relentless, opportunistic, ruthless Freddie Lounds was not a woman who really, truly wanted to hurt anyone, Will knew that, even if that someone was Hannibal the Cannibal, currently gagging for breath just a foot in front of her. 

He knew he’d have to appeal to that if they were going to get out of this with no further bloodshed. Will takes a step towards Hannibal who groans desperately, a disgusting mixture of tears and mucus pouring down his face. Lounds snaps the gun to him, “Don’t move, Graham.”

“Freddie,” he reasons, hands up palms out, “I have to go to him. I just want to help him.” He says it so logically, so convincingly, that he could be telling how simply the sky is blue.

She looks conflicted, then she lowers the gun in resignation. Part of him hopes she will leave and not raise her camera. The concern doesn’t stop him from grabbing Hannibal’s hands and forcing him still, “I’m right here.”

Hannibal gasps desperately like a fish out of water, eyes pinched shut, head bleeding. Why is everything such a fucking mess? “I’m going to get something to help,” he tugs his hands free from Hannibal’s tight grasp and goes to the kitchen for cold water and dish soap.

Hannibal reaches for Will blindly when he mechanically pours the water over his head, spluttering as it runs into his nose. “I didn’t know about his head,” Lounds insists in way of an apology, as if anyone expected her to apologize, as if there was an expectation of her to justify her actions. He wants to crack wise, _oh, if you did would you’ve let him grab you?_ but he feels bad for her instead.

“I know,” he reassures, pouring more water on Hannibal’s face and rubbing the soap along his skin before dumping more on. Hannibal chokes, gags, and Will clears the snot off his face the mucus from his eyes. “Can you hear me?” he whispers, the crueler side of his brain wanting to step back for a moment and examine this undignified, ungraceful side of Hannibal Lecter. The other side, the side that allows himself to be held by this man, used to sit opposite him in a leather chair in a dark office, the side that understands him, gently pushes his hair from his face and leans down to try to see into his eyes that do not open.

It takes him a moment, but Hannibal nods slightly. Will offers a small smile that he knows Hannibal can’t see, “I’m sure you know, but this is going to pass,” he reassures, then he turns to Freddie, “Freddie, how was he acting before you hit him?”

She stares at them wide eyed, far away, “Freddie!”

“Uh, confused. He seemed confused. Slow. Disorientated, maybe?”

“Have you called anyone yet?”

She is quiet for a moment, “No.”

“She can’t leave, Will,” Hannibal slurs quietly, grabbing at his sleeve.

Will ignores him, “We are leaving and no one else has to get hurt. Take your story and publish it in a few weeks. If you don’t, we will come back. I will come back. You will regret it.”

The words leave his mouth and he knows the risk, knows the risk he is taking with not just himself, but with Hannibal. Hannibal knows, too, and he looks up at Will through slitted eyes that are bloodshot and dazed but all too aware. Will looks away from her and back at Hannibal when he wheezes and starts to choke again.

He hears footsteps—running, heels on tile—then the front door slams.

Hannibal flinches at the noise, spluttering, “Will—” He sounds wrecked, but furious. Will grabs his face, silencing him and pinning his head against the wall behind him.

“Stop moving,” he instructs, his own eyes burning from the mace that lingers in the air. Hannibal’s are almost completely swollen shut, mucus dripping off his face. “She isn’t going to tell anyone, Hannibal. The story is more important to her than the crime. If we are arrested, what is she going to write about?”

Lecter jerks his head to the side, groaning miserably, but Will grabs him again, “Can you stand? We need to get you into the shower.”

“We have to go,” Hannibal pants, reaching blindly for Will and struggles to his feet. Hannibal’s legs shake uncontrollably, but credit must be given where it is due—he forces himself to take a few unsteady steps before collapsing towards Will. “My head is bleeding again.” He does sound confused, Will notes, or at least unfocused. Will inhales deeply and lets his eyes close for a moment, blocking out the ugly sounds and sights of a mace-soaked Hannibal, and instead lets himself feel. Hannibal is confused, his brain circuiting uselessly; knowing what has to be done but in no particular order. Unsure where to start, or where to stop. His brain has reverted to survival mode but cannot decide between fight or flight.

Will hums, dragging Hannibal into the bathroom, “I can see that. Leave it to Freddie Lounds to be excessive. In her defense, though, she saw an opening and took it—you really should’ve been more forthcoming about how you’ve been feeling. I wouldn’t have left you alone.”

With a light shove, Hannibal falls back into the shower stall wall with a thud. The freezing water rips a gasp from him, then a relieved sigh. Will reaches in and scrubs at his face, his lip twitching at the slimy red mixture that runs down the drain. “You’re alright,” Will coos quietly when Hannibal reaches out his hand towards him again, his eyes squeezed shut. Will holds his hand with one hand, and with the other, prods at the fresh gash on his temple.

Hannibal huffs, shivering in his soaked clothing, “You risk our freedom to let her go. This is the second time you’ve broken my trust in favor of protecting Miss. Lounds.” His eyes are still too puffy to fully open, but Will can see enough of them to know he’d be glaring at him if he could.

Annoyed, Will shuts off the water and grabs Hannibal’s arm and tugs him roughly from the shower and onto the closed toilet seat. “Take your clothes off,” then he leaves Hannibal sitting there to go get him a change of clothing. Most of their stuff was already on the boat, leaving only a pair of worn sweatpants that Will wasn’t totally sure who they belonged to, but he was certain Hannibal hadn’t bought them, and a long-sleeve tee with a hole in the armpit. He returns to a struggling, wet Hannibal, one arm free of the shirt and the other half untucked, breathing heavily and shaking. A part of Will wants to offer comfort, offer reassurance, instead he grabs his other arm and roughly forces the shirt over his head in one movement.

“We have to go, Will,” Hannibal says again, more sternly this time, but his voice still wavers with uncertainty. Puffy, swollen eyes roam past Will towards the bathroom door, clearly having moved on to thinking about a plan to escape, “If we flee to the nearest town—” 

Will grabs his jaw and forces his head up to look him in the eyes, still puffy and irritated, but open enough to see exactly what Will wants him to see after he carelessly wipes his face dry with the hand towel. “Stop repeating yourself. I heard you and we will go. Right after you’re dressed. We cannot go to town, Hannibal. We have to leave by boat.” There is a finality in his voice that he almost doesn’t recognize, but he rides the wave and pushes Hannibal’s head down so he can examine the cut more closely. Hannibal groans in pain, one of his hands coming up to clutch Will’s wrist tightly, a definite signal to be more gentle.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve grown cruel towards me,” Hannibal murmurs, “You’re overly aggressive.”

“You’re overly manipulative,” Will accuses, determining the cut is barely a flesh wound, and it would hardly be a concern if the man wasn’t already suffering from a head injury. “Hiding a head injury, giving me the documents, letting me choose where to go next, bringing me the piece of shit from the alley,” Will hisses, acting far less concerned about Hannibal than he actually was. If he let on how worried he was, it would be more real—they’d have to acknowledge that this may be more serious than they want to pretend, and it may be far more problematic for them moving forward. His hands snake down to Hannibal’s slacks, tugging at the clasp and pushing Hannibal to lean back slightly, hesitating only to help steady him from falling off the toilet.

“I’m merely trying to find a compromise in our partnership,” then, soft, trembling fingers reach for Will’s cheek. “What’s happened to you, Will? Since when have you grown so cold?” Will looks up at him from where he knelt to pull his pants off. A fresh dampness had formed on Hannibal’s cheeks, _tears_.

They stare at each other for a moment before Will moves again, this time more gently, to help Hannibal into the sweatpants, then the shirt. He stands over Hannibal then, watching as he rubs his eyes and rolls his shoulders, then he feels himself soften. “Do you wish for us to be caught, Will?”

Hannibal tilts his head towards his palm when Will reaches up to hold his face, brushing his thumbs under his eyes, “No, of course not.”

“Then why let her go?”

“She had a gun. She was scared. She is the one who lives to tell our story.”

A soft tongue licks at Hannibal’s thin lips, then he peers up at Will, “How can we come to trust each other? I feel as though we come so close and then drift apart again. Your love feels like a tidal storm—sometimes it rushes over me, and others the waves barely break at the shore.”

“Nothing about us has been easy or normal, why would our love be any different.”

Hannibal smiles slightly, tiredly, then lifts his hand to cover Will’s on his cheek, “Perhaps. However, I find myself confused how one moment you manage to be so gentle, and the next you show such little regard for my wellbeing. Are you trying to prove a point, that you can dominate me?”

Will leans down and presses a kiss to his mouth, “Do you object?”

A breath of a chuckle passes Hannibal’s lips, the air mingling with Will’s, “I do not. I wasn’t aware you’d want to engage in this type of relationship at all times. There can be a balance—sexual and physical domination can be extremely satisfying, but I should hope you’d have some desire for emotional intimacy on a more leveled field. Some of my memories feel distant to me right now, but I don’t recall treating you with such vindictive aggression.”

 _Besides that time you gutted me in your kitchen,_ Will wants to remind, but Hannibal is looking up with him with such a genuine hurt that he can’t even bring himself to be petty right now. The next kiss is boarding on tender, _loving_ , before he pulls back enough to rest his forehead against Hannibal’s, “I want to trust you have good intentions. It’s just difficult to look past your… track record.”

“Do you find that your emotional detachment and selective affection reassure you that you’re maintaining the upper hand?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” he takes Hannibal’s cold hands and pulls him to stand, steadying him gently, “I’ll think about it. I’ll work on it. But for now we have to get out of here.”

“Not so confident that Miss. Lounds will heed your warning, then?”

Will tucks Hannibal’s arm around his shoulder, and anchors his own around Hannibal’s thin waist, and slowly starts maneuvering them towards the back door. “I think she will. But to be sure, lets sail towards Cuba and maybe dock there for supplies before we cross, just in case we are being followed. Who knows how long she was lingering around for and what she saw and heard.”

They are quiet for a few minutes as they slowly get Hannibal in the boat and settled into the cabin. Will situates a few things and goes to head back to the house to grab whatever is left when Hannibal stops him: “Will,” he says quietly, waiting until the other man is looking at him before continuing, “I think, perhaps, the head injury is more severe than we’ve acknowledged. Maybe not in day-to-day activities, but I fear some motor functions and cognitive processes are hindered. I’m also in a bit of pain.”

Will sighs, turning fully and coming to stand over the man on the cot. His eyes are bright red, as is the skin of his face. His lips are swollen and irritated, Will can hear the faint hiss of his breath from his swollen and aggravated lungs and throat. “I can see that. I don’t think a second blow to the head is doing you any favors. The mace was a nice touch—that alone is disorientating.” He turns away to go into the small attached bathroom, runs cold water onto a rag and take two anti-inflammatories from the bottle, and returns to the cabin, “Lay down. I’ll put this on your face and you can rest. It should help with some of the pain.” He offers both to Hannibal, who reaches out with shaking hands and tips the pills back dry.

“It’s very likely I’ll feel even more ill as we sail,” Hannibal whispers as if it is some secretive confession, “I want to help you sail and take turns, but I’m afraid of what the motion will do to my condition.”

Will helps him lay back, then presses the cold rag to Hannibal’s cheeks, smiling slightly at the look of pure, unaltered relief on Hannibal’s features at the soothe. The burn must be terrible, especially since Will can feel it in his own sinuses just from being in the room. “We will worry about that as it happens, neither of us are prepared to handle tackling each problem that is yet to come.”

Hannibal blinks up at him tiredly, “I’ve made this entire process much harder. I always imagined a much different escape plan for us, Will. Our new lives together have been less than ideal thus far and our conditions are lack-luster. I’m sorry, Will, for adding undue stress to this whole process.”

An undeniable lump forms in Will’s throat, the first time he’d really, really felt like he was about to burst into tears since they’d fallen from the cliff, “We were reborn the moment we hit that water. Reborn into what I guess remains to be seen,” Hannibal’s puffy eyelids struggle to open more for a moment, then Will gently rests his cold hand against them in comfort, “Don’t apologize, your specific condition is my fault this time. So really I got us into this set of circumstances, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For your head, I mean. I’m sure it’s frustrating and… frightening.” He winces at the words, wishing it sounded less awkward, glad Hannibal isn’t looking at him.

“You did what you thought you needed to do in the moment,” Hannibal dismisses simply, “It is likely not permanent brain damage, but some of this may linger indefinitely. You’ve been remarkably patient with me, you could’ve left numerous times and had a head start on me.”

“Well, I guess that’s why the vows call for “in sickness and in health,” I suppose,” he mumbles, intending for it to break the tension, but instead it comes out as a whispered confession. He wants to say something else, but instead leans down and presses a soft kiss to Hannibal’s hairline before retreating back to the house for the last check of supplies.


	11. Intertwine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intertwine: To twist or tie something together, to connect or link two things closely, often so close that it is difficult to determine where one begins and the other ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!!!  
> So, next stop: Cuba.  
> Last chapter, well, wait and see.

Back in the house, Will is on edge immediately. He can hear someone moving around, considers that he may have to kill Freddie Lounds after all. Instead, Chiyoh is standing over the small puddle of blood and bodily fluids left in Hannibal’s wake. “I thought you left.”

She looks up at him, face void of emotion, “I did,” then she looks down again at the mess, “I saw the journalist come in and leave.”

“You’ve been watching us.”

She looks up at him again, eyes narrow, and doesn’t deny it, “Hannibal was showing many symptoms of mild traumatic brain injury before I left. Has he improved?”

Will rubs his hand against his stubbled jaw, “Well, not exactly. She may have pistol whipped him and maced him.”

“I’ll be coming to sail with you to Cuba, I don’t feel I can trust you to look after Hannibal.”

 _How did she know about Cuba?_ but he doesn’t ask, “Maybe that is for the best, we can take turns sailing since I don’t think Hannibal will be much help.”

They say nothing else to each other as they gather the rest of the belongings and supplies. Will can’t help but wonder if Chiyoh could ever really leave them now, ever really move on. At this point, her entire identity had been lost to Hannibal, even when they were not together. Their fates were so intertwined, the three of them.

They both freeze on the stairs to the cabin, neither of them outwardly reacting to the fresh splash of vomit on the deck next to the cot and Hannibal slumped against the mattress with his eyes closed. Chiyoh reanimates first, “Clean that up,” she instructs him, then she goes to Hannibal’s side and crouches next to the cot. She whispers something inaudibly, then slightly louder tsks, “His lips are so dry they’re bleeding. He needs water.”

Will fiddles with the rag he had used on Hannibal’s face to wipe up the vomit, consisting mostly of liquid and bile, and makes a face, “I’ve never been the most qualified of caregivers.”

“It is not funny,” she asserts, cracking a bottle of water and pressing it to Hannibal’s mouth. He drinks, eagerly, without forcing his puffy eyes open. “How do you feel?”

He knows it’s directed at Hannibal without looking up, “Welcome back, Chiyoh. I was relatively certain you hadn’t strayed far.”

Will peers up at that, an unwarranted pang of jealousy stabs his gut when they smile gently at one another, “Have I ever?”

Hannibal looks slightly better, his eyes less swollen and his skin less irritated, “We’ve been bonded since youth,” he agrees, “Perhaps be more forgiving towards Will. He struggles with astronomical levels of guilt and conflictions in his morality. I don’t think his seemingly lack of regard for my wellbeing is intentional.”

“You are blinded by your own emotions, Hannibal,” she states bluntly, then she moves away to go above deck to cast them off.

Hannibal offers Will a small, tired smile, “She’s very protective of me, as you’ve come to see.”

Will swallows roughly, tensing and relaxing his jaw, then he sighs, “It isn’t intentional, I’m just really struggling with all this.” He stands to drop the soiled towel into the bathroom sink for later and comes to sit on the edge of the cot. “I’m afraid, Hannibal. Now I’m even more afraid because you’re…” he feels a small tide of panic rise in his throat, what he’d suppressed and pushed down dutifully before, the earnest look on Hannibal’s face making his eyes well with tears. “If you’re not going to be the same again, what will we do? You’re the one who handles business. I thought I could take over if I just took control but I just feel worse and worse.”

The admission feels freeing, like a weight lifted from his shoulders, just as the boat begins to move. “Dear Will, give yourself more credit. As for my condition, it is highly unlikely I’ll suffer permanent damage, although it would be beneficial to my prognosis to avoid any further abuse to my head, at least for some time,” the attempt at a joke makes the tears fall sadly. Hannibal tilts his face up to look at him with a simple finger under his chin, “Your nature is to care, Will. You’re gentle and kind. We are fire and ice and the two can only coexist if neither squanders the other. Your empathy is beautiful, but you become reckless and cruel when you try to resist it on principle.”

Will studies Hannibal’s face, the fading bruises and healing cuts, the raw skin of his lips, and the now pink irritation of his cheeks and eyes, and he carefully raises a palm to press to the other man’s cheek. The question remained, could he maintain his identity with full disclosure of who Hannibal was? Could he stand by this man through the truth and all its consequences?

“You don’t have to make any revelations now, Will,” Hannibal whispers, his own eyes falling from Will’s eyes to his lips and back again, “Consider your future and mine, separate and together. Ponder what you can live with, and what type of man you want to be in your new world. I have always known who I am, Will, but who I am with you is only a new layer to what already was. Who are you when you’re with me?”

A gentle thumb brushes the wetness from Will’s cheek in a gesture that can only be seen as tender, and he shifts closer to Hannibal to pull him into a hug. “With you I’m free.”

\------------------------------ 

It’s a good thing Chiyoh comes with them, especially as Hannibal’s sickness keeps him nearly bedridden for most of the journey to Cuba. If he isn’t laying down, he’s sitting and leaning for support, his head largely unprepared for sea life. He vomits so much that their rations of water get worryingly low as they attempt to keep him hydrated, whereas their food rations go far less quickly with the way Hannibal picks at his portions and then passes them to Will with disinterest. He watches Will as he eats, eyes half-lidded, “You’re extremely lucky the Dragon’s knife pass right through the skin of your cheek. It missed your teeth, gums, and jaw—highly unlikely.”

Will nods slightly, “Luck is one way to look at it, I guess.”

“As opposed to the alternative, yes.” Hannibal knows Will hates being studied, yet he stares so openly now. “I was not very attentive to your shoulder, but it appears you move it relatively well. Is there tightness? Pain?” Will rotates his shoulder thoughtlessly, a small stab of pain and stiffness revealing itself as he raises it.

“Some, nothing terrible.”

“The knife cut more towards his armpit than his actual shoulder, some of that is probably from his previous injuries,” Chiyoh supplies helpfully.

Hannibal hardly glances at her, but he looks at Will with quiet relief, “Excellent. I’m pleased good fortune was on your side and your recovery has been mostly cosmetic.” Will flushes, even more awkward by the fact that Hannibal’s recovery had been anything but. Chiyoh looks between the two of them, then gets up and goes above deck without saying a word.

\------------------------------

Though he will never admit it, Hannibal is bored and worried. The sea sickness and fleeting dizziness keep him from reading, whereas his perpetual tiredness and nausea keep him vertical or seated more often than not.

When Will sails, Chiyoh often helps Hannibal onto the upper deck and props him up in a chair with a blanket so he can sit with Will. They talk quietly, small talk they had never really gotten to consider before with all the talk of murder and instability. Will guides the ship while Hannibal sits curled under a blanket, his head resting against his hand.

Many would hear them and consider these moments as being on their first dates, almost laughably banal for how much more they’d shared together before. Will openly laughs when Hannibal grins candidly as a dolphin splashes in the boat’s wake, and then looks almost shyly towards Will. “Dolphins are some of the most intelligent creatures, their intelligence and emotions can rival our own,” he says without being asked, and it just makes Will laugh more.

“You just think they’re cute.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches into a small smile, “I wouldn’t say cute, but they are beautiful and majestic.”

“I think they’re cute.”

Hannibal laughs slightly, a sound mostly unfamiliar to Will but one he finds himself hoping he hears more and more. “In their own way, I suppose. Not nearly as cute as cubs.”

Will sets some of the navigation to autopilot and goes to plop next to Hannibal on the wooden bench, taking the water bottle offered to him, “Cats or bears?”

“Both are charming,” Hannibal muses, lifting his arm to the back of the bench in a silent offering. He’s over resisting and pretending, Will is sure they both are, and he concedes, resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder with a sigh.

“If anyone knows charming, it would be you,” Will teases, letting his eyes fall shut when long fingers tangle in his hair and rub at his scalp. Thoughts of him doing the same to many others before him—Alana, Bedelia—as a way of manipulation nearly spoil the moment for him, but he chases them away when soft lips press against the top of his head.

“I’m glad you think so.”

Will flicks his side with a huff, “If you expect me to believe for one second you aren’t completely aware of the charm and charisma you ooze, you’re talking to the wrong person.” The easy, carefree nature of the moment seems to grow more tense suddenly, a spark of something jumping between both of them. Nervously, Will can’t bring himself to lift his head, but instead slides his hand along Hannibal’s thigh.

It’s Hannibal who responds to that, gently pulling Will up and pressing into his mouth with an amount of passion Will hadn’t expected. They both seem to move at once then, Will to the kneeling position and Hannibal straightening up to get a better angle. With all the sex they’d been having, this is the first time Will feels truly nervous. In the past few nights, they’d cuddled more, kissed more, and been all around more affectionate to one another than they had since they fell from the cliff. There was a pattern of consistency and comfort forming in the interactions, but they hadn’t had sex, despite feeling pressing erections when they pressed together closely.

The boat sways once more dramatically suddenly, knocking Will slightly off balance but teetering Hannibal almost completely from the bench and breaking them apart. Will grabs him quickly and pulls him back up, turning to press Hannibal’s back to his chest. Will sits like that for a few moments, taking Hannibal’s weight and holding him, waiting for the cycle of vomiting that always follows these moments throughout the day. Hannibal breathes heavily, his fingers clutching at Will’s on his chest, before slowly releasing them. “You okay?” Will whispers against his hair, rubbing a soothing circle into Hannibal’s sternum with his thumb.

“The feeling passed much quicker than it has previously,” he notes almost clinically, his head lulled back against Will’s shoulder limply.

“That’s good then,” Will offers, flushing slightly as his erection brushes against Hannibal’s back, “Sorry.”

“Chiyoh won’t be up for another hour or so,” Hannibal responds suggestively, their previous direction floating back into view.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Gingerly, Hannibal sits up again, “Yes.”

He doesn’t think about how readily horny he is now in ways he never was before, or where the urge to suck Hannibal off comes from, and instead he closes his mind and sinks to his knees between the other man’s thighs and just lets himself feel. Mouth slack, Hannibal palms the side of Will’s head when he slips him from the sweatpants and doesn’t give a second thought to wrapping his lips around the head.

It’s inexperienced, driven only by Will’s limited knowledge of being on the receiving end, but its enough that Hannibal makes small noises in his throat whenever Will swallows around him. The small noises break into a quiet moan when Will reaches down to rub himself through his pants. Hannibal’s thighs shake with the effort of slowly rocking his hips up towards Will, his fingers tightening in the curls that had started to grow longer again. “I didn’t anticipate you being so enthusiastic about a blow job,” Will comments when he comes up for air, moving up to the bench when Hannibal reaches for him.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, his own fist working slowly on his length, and Will almost cums just from that sight alone, “You look delicious with my cock in your mouth.”

 _”Fuck,”_ it’s the most debauched thing that has ever been said to him, but it shoots right down his spine and right to his balls. Hannibal reaches for him when Will frees himself from his pants too, and jerks both in the same slow, tantalizing motions.

“I can lie on my back,” Hannibal offers, “So long as you take care not to—”

“Come here,” Will interrupts, sliding onto his back and tugging Hannibal with him to lay pressed against his chest. It’s uncomfortable, but it allows him to support Hannibal’s head on his chest and get his free hand wrapped around them both at the same time. A new sensation, to feel the way both of their erections rub against one another. Erotic and completely unique. “This feels different.”

He can feel Hannibal’s hot breath panting against his chest, his hips rocking in small movements into Will’s fist, “A pleasurable sensation,” he agrees quietly.

“It’s very intimate,” he adds, brushing his thumb against the moist head of the other’s cock, his own jumping in response to the twitch the movement elicits.

“Perhaps this isn’t the most appropriate time to say this,” Hannibal swallows thickly, his hips stuttering slightly in their rhythm against each other, “And I’m sure you already know, to some degree, but I love you, Will.”

The suddenness of Will’s orgasm crushes him and takes his breath away, and he groans at the power of it. Vaguely aware of the few more desperate thrusts from Hannibal before he, too, tenses and cums, Will tightens his arm into a vice around Hannibal’s back, fusing them together, his free hand milking the sensation from Hannibal’s erection. Will revels in how he keens at the feeling, his hips pressing forward for more up until the line of overstimulation is crossed and he tries to retreat. Teasingly, Will grasps tighter, easing up when Hannibal says his name in warning under his breath like a prayer.

They lay there as their breathing levels out and the mess between them starts to dry and itch. “I do know, but it’s entirely different hearing you say it,” Will finally comments.

Hannibal hums, slowly working himself into the sitting position again without moving too suddenly, “I apologize if that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” In a clear effort to take the pressure off Will, Hannibal busies himself with using some of the water from the bottle to wash away the cum tangled in his belly hair, knowing full well only a shower will successfully clean him entirely.

“I’ve never told anyone I loved them before,” Will blurts, forcing himself not to look away when Hannibal looks up.

“Nor have I.”

“But I do too,” Will adds quickly, “Love you, that is. I love you, too. I guess that much was obvious after… all this.”

Hannibal offers him a gentle smile, “Yes, indeed it was. I suppose it is different hearing you say it.”

“Yours was… less obvious.”

Will adjusts his sweatpants, not even bothering to clean himself, knowing its just a waste of water until they shower. “I think we both express love differently than what many would consider traditional, but I think our feelings for each other were quite apparent for some time now.”

“Would you feel the same if we never became physical?”

Hannibal smirks, “I already did. Is it the sex that made you love me? Was that what enticed and lured you away from your wife?”

Will flushes with embarrassment, remembering just how empty he had felt when he’d go down on Molly, remembering just how unfulfilled he felt when he’d press inside her. “It wasn’t the sex, but I feel like a horny teenager.”

“I’ve always been a fan of indulging in urges.”

“You don’t say?” Will says sarcastically, leaning forward to press a kiss to Hannibal’s mouth, “I really didn’t know I was… gay?”

Hannibal tilted his head thoughtfully, “Are you gay?”

“Are you?” He knows it sounds childish and defensive, but the heat in his cheeks pushes the question away.

Hannibal, as usual, is completely unbothered, “No. I don’t feel the need to put titles on anything, but I suppose I would be pansexual. If you’re gay, Will, there is no shame in that.”

He feels small and big at the same time, “Do you think I am? I wouldn’t be ashamed it’s just… a big piece of my identity to be questioning now.”

“Humans, in general, put far too much weight on their sexuality as part of their core identity. You know better than anyone else human behavior is fluid and ever changing. We are constantly learning ourselves. I can’t define your sexuality for you, Will, but for what it’s worth I don’t think you’re homosexual. Perhaps bisexual, maybe pansexual if you feel you wouldn’t be intimate with another man besides myself. If it is the connection you find yourself attracted to.”

“You know, for all of the terrible things you do, you’re unflinchingly accepting of others. You hold no hatred towards anyone for anything. You find every variable of humanity… beautiful. You’re even accepting of being potentially disabled in strides.”

Hannibal looks out towards the water then, “Humans are beautiful creatures, I find it a shame we all too often bog ourselves down with mundane and trivial hatred towards exceptionalities that should be celebrated. I’m also not one who should be passing judgement on anyone else, as you know.” He looks back to Will, then, sincerely, “Don’t trouble yourself with my injury, Will. If I have any permanent limitations, we will adjust—a disability is not the end of life as one knows it, just part of the journey. We should only measure ourselves by what we can do, not what we cannot.”

Hannibal adjusts himself back into his pants again, then, “I hate to interrupt this moment, but we’d both benefit from a shower and I hear Chiyoh getting ready to come up here.”

\------------------------------ 

They had passed Chiyoh on their way into the cabin, Hannibal greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and Will with a guilty smile as he helped Hannibal down the stairs. Never in his life would he have had sex with someone else that nearby before, but apparently there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do anymore. He doesn’t expect them to cram into the small shower together, but they do, rushing to rinse as Hannibal looks increasingly tired from their activities.

Their peace only lasts for a few moments until the boat lists to the right enough for Will to grab the wall for support and for Hannibal fall back into the wall. Reflexively, Will gets an arm around Hannibal’s head to keep it from knocking back into the faux tile. “Fuck, you’re okay,” Will grits when Hannibal grabs him and holds on tightly as the boat rights itself again, struggling to stay upright under both of their weight.

He pulls back just enough to see Hannibal has gone deathly pale, his face pinched in discomfort, and Will turns just enough for the puke to miss him and instead splatter into the shower. They both had a strong stomach, clearly, but Will had never been more thankful for that than he’d been in the past few weeks. Now, he pulls Hannibal against him and does little more than offer comfort when he empties what little liquids he’d been able to keep down, watching as they swirl down the drain.

The sickness subsides slowly, leaving a shaking and weakened Hannibal shivering against Will’s side, one arm clutched around his middle. “That must fucking hurt,” Will offers in sympathy, slowly moving them from the shower stall and propping Hannibal on the toilet to dry him.

“My ribs are still tender, and my abdominal muscles don’t appreciate this constant abuse,” Hannibal agrees softly, drinking eagerly at the water bottle Will held up for him and nuzzling into the warm towel draped around his shoulders.

It’s better when they’re both cuddled into the cot, dressed in sweats and bare chested, teeth brushed and skin soft. 

It might be minutes or hours later, Will can’t tell, when he realizes they aren’t on the boat anymore. In fact, they were never on the boat at all.

A bright light flashes, the prick and sting of a needle, sweat forming on his brow and running down his temples. He’s panting, his brain screaming in his skull, his eyes burn from sweat and the light. Blindly, he reaches out, fingers touching the cloth of a waistcoat, and Hannibal is there, standing over him. They’re in his office, it’s dark, Hannibal is right there. “Hann…Hannibal,” he pants, he doesn’t recognize the sheer terror and desperation in his voice. Fingers clench in the fabric, it grounds him in the moment, and he tugs trying to bring him closer. “Hannibal what’s happening?” he whines, leaning forward to press his face to the fabric for comfort.

All at once, cool, strong hands pry his from the fabric and he steps back, so far that Will almost falls forward trying to get closer. “Please,” he begs, for something, he isn’t sure. He’s scared, terrified, his heart pounding so hard it thunders in his ears and pulses in his throat. “ _Please, Hannibal_ ,” he whimpers, reaching again and blinking away tears to see Hannibal retreat to sit across from him. Why would he leave him there? What was happening? _I thought you loved me?_

He reenters the real world with a gasp, and its still dark but the bed below them sways with the waves and the heat of Hannibal’s body is pressed against him. Dark eyes watch him from inches away curiously, “You were dreaming about me,” he states.

Will feels the lump in his throat grow, “We were in your office. You… I was reaching for you when I was having a seizure.”

Hannibal blinks at him, “Yes, you did that often when we’d have sessions.”

“You wouldn’t let me hold onto you,” he states bluntly, looking away from Hannibal to stare up at the ceiling. _You abandoned me, even then._

“No,” Hannibal says in simple agreement.

They lay there like that for a few minutes in silence, the dull ache of reality in Will’s stomach. Surprisingly, Hannibal breaks the silence again, “At the time, that wasn’t part of my plan.” He doesn’t say sorry, because he isn’t sorry. What happened had happened and there wasn’t really anything to even be sorry about anymore. It fractures Will’s heart, how easily Hannibal had slipped between the concerned psychiatrist and friend and the sinister creature who would sit there and look at him indifferently and coldly. If he could do that then, he could do it now. The red flags and warning bells alarm in Will’s ears, fight or flight tells him fuck it, stop fighting, get out of there. The same large, strong hand that had pulled his fingers from his waistcoat a lifetime ago now interlaces their fingers and hold his hand gently, lovingly.

Every part of them had become so intertwined, where did one begin and the other end? Did it matter anymore?

“That was long before all of these other developments of our relationship, Will. Much has changed since then,” it’s almost an apology, almost. Almost a reassurance it won’t happen again. Almost.

It’s no reassurance it isn’t happening now, though.

Will squeezes his fingers in response, “Will we kill in Cuba?”

They both note the subject change, but Hannibal doesn’t push it, “I was hoping we would. Perhaps we could explore my abilities as practice for the future and the tasks that lay before us.”

_Practice._

“I’d like us to settle into our new lives seamlessly, once we get to Europe. After we reunite with Bedelia, it’s best we leave Florence and settle somewhere entirely new. We can review the properties I have access to and decide from there. For the first few years, we should continue to move around. Change names and identities. We can reevaluate after some time if there is a continued need. We must get a gauge for any news coverage of our whereabouts, plus Miss. Lounds’ article.” Always thinking, always planning—it seems strange, imagining them years from now. Will doesn’t want to think about that.

“I concede to your expertise,” he concludes. He doesn’t really care, honestly, as long as they can eventually settle and stop feeling like the world is crumbling at any moment. He wants the domestic, creature comforts he once knew, wants to feel like Hannibal isn’t going to shove him overboard at any moment. He’s tired of harboring fear of the man. “I’m afraid of you, Hannibal. I’m afraid of what happens when I disappoint you, or when you come up with a new plan that doesn’t include me.”

Hannibal laughs softly, “Your survival instincts are strong, so of course you’re afraid. You are no longer prey, Will. We are both predators now; the lamb became the lion. You are my equal.”

Hannibal rubs his face on the thin pillow below their heads, smiling softly, and Will gently reaches out to touch the faded shadow on the side of his face. “What went wrong with the man in the alley? What went wrong with Freddie?”

Hannibal studies his face intently for a moment, “There are brief moments of confusion, sometimes there is flash of pain, both are very distracting.”

Will trails his fingers down to the thin, dry lips, “Is that how he was able to get so many hits on you?”

Hannibal hums, “We had went back into the alley, I was pliant to entice him. As soon as I resisted, he hit me. I’m afraid it stunned me momentarily, gave him the opening he needed. With Miss. Lounds I had a moment of disorientation, bad timing I suppose.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Only seemingly at the worst times,” Hannibal’s lip quirks humorlessly, “I would not say frequently, but it is something to watch for if we are going to partake in activities where there is little room for error or hesitation.”

With the barriers removed, two can intertwine as one. For them to be successful, in light of their circumstances, Will has to consciously decide now or never that he is willing to finish the complete fusion of their beings. There can be no more second guessing, no more hesitation, no more back and forth. Their continued freedom, arguably their entire existence moving forward, will ride solely on their ability to work together. Hannibal seems to harbor little reservations about the magnitude of their union, if the light of defiance that burns in his eyes as they lay there is any indication. Will doesn't shy away from the intensity of it, and knows in that moment Hannibal's hooks are so far under his skin, just as far as his own are under Hannibal's. They can antagonize and poke at each other as much as they want, but to rip the hooks from one means to tear the flesh of the other. There is no turning back now. Will finally smiles slightly in return, "I think we can work something out."


	12. Affirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Affirmation: The action or process of affirming or acknowledging something, a declaration of purpose, to offer emotional support or encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this one just has a mind of its own. One more chapter (for now?) and then an epilogue. This has grown teeth and wings from when I started it, so feedback is appreciated and I have an outline for the last chapter and will work on it over the next week or so.
> 
> Comments bring every writer joy, don't forget that!
> 
> All mistakes are my own, I'll keep editing as I catch them. Sorry in advance.

It had been hot in Argentina, but it was oppressively hot in Cuba. Will was sweating working outside Hannibal’s house—a storm that had come through the area leaving debris and downed trees all over the property. Hannibal sits outside, reading and drinking wine, but every time Will looks up, he’s watching him with a glint in his eyes.

Chiyoh goes to town for them and mostly keeps an impatient Hannibal in check. Will isn’t sure if he would help Will with the physical labor if he could, but he certainly would be doing something. Chiyoh pushes him into a chair and shines a pen light in his eyes, ignoring the smirk and sassy comments that fall from his lips. They’d shaved and cleaned themselves up nicely again, their gnarly beards finally gone and the itch that came with them.

That is their first few days in a nutshell, their nights consist largely of sex and quiet conversations. There is a tedious balance of civilized socialization by day and rough fucking by night. Will finds himself pressing Hannibal’s face into the mattress roughly, fucking him brutally and violently, whispering whatever comes to his mind. It would be obscene the way Will tells him how Hannibal fucked his mind and he returns the favor with his body, but it’s not because its them. Hannibal eats it up, enjoying himself when Will loses himself so deeply in their game that he relents control for trying to remain quiet, despite Chiyoh just in the other room.

It is after that things have changed between them, after they’re both spent and Hannibal shakes uncontrollably under him. Will has gentled towards him since they’d left Argentina. Now, he brushes sweat from his eyes and helps him lay back, overly cautious about his head despite having fucked him roughly just moments before. “Look at me,” he insists quietly, watching Hannibal’s eyes waver and then focus again. Checking that he’s okay each and every time before tenderly kissing him, as if apologizing for the rough treatment.

This was their negotiation, or at least it was Hannibal’s. Somehow, as usual, Hannibal gets his way—he gets the sides of Will he wants, and Will… gets what he wants too, he supposes. He isn’t sure if he wanted their relationship to ever be sexual in nature, but now he can’t imagine a time when he doesn’t have the freedom to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and listen to him practically purr in response.

There’s also the underlying jealousy that sits ugly in his stomach whenever Hannibal interacts with Chiyoh. He stands in the doorway one evening, sipping wine and watching as Hannibal gently braids her hair in the living room, speaking quietly in a language unfamiliar to Will. There is a bonded loyalty between them, and Will wonders if Hannibal would gut her, too, if he felt like he had to. When they both look up at him, he’s surprised when they both smile calmly, and Hannibal reaches a hand to him from his work. He settles on the couch, feeling like he interrupted, and watches Hannibal’s hands as they work. “You have nice hair,” he comments lamely, hiding his blush with a sip of his wine.

Hannibal doesn’t miss a beat, “She has gorgeous hair, she always has,” he says fondly, “I learned to braid specifically to style it for her when we were young. This is a Finnish Plait style.”

“I had very long hair,” she muses, “but very short arms. Hannibal helped me tend to it. When he could not speak, he acted.”

Will swallows the bitterness of his unwarranted jealousy with another gulp of wine. He can picture them. A wounded, traumatized Hannibal with dark eyes and strange urges, and a young, vibrant Chiyoh in an unfamiliar situation far from her home. He can imagine Hannibal’s ferocious protectiveness of her, and her genuine desire to look after him.

“I found this soothing. I always functioned better when my hands and brain were otherwise occupied,” Hannibal murmurs, tying off the bottom of the braid before Chyioh gracefully rises from the floor and retreats to sit in the lounge across from them on the couch. Will can picture a far less controlled Hannibal, his destruction uncalculated and illogical, seeking desperately for something to untangle his crowded, overstimulated mind.

“That mindset is in your various passions,” Will whispers, as if speaking too loudly will break their tranquility, “Drawing, music, cooking… murder.”

Hannibal smiles softly at him, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips as if it was the most natural gesture in the world. Will tenses despite himself, accepting the kiss before glancing towards Chiyoh awkwardly while she gazes at them and sips her wine with a small smile.

“Precisely. I learned from a very young age action is more important than words, and if your hands and mind are busy, you can overcome almost anything. I’ve never deviated from that control over myself, aside from when you restrain me.”

Will flushes hotter, eyes flashing to Chiyoh again, who looks on with amusement. “I wasn’t aware that would be… triggering for you.”

“In our youth, he would have never allowed such things,” she adds, “He had such trouble with feeling confined, there was a point a door or window always had to be open for an easy escape.”

“I find it strangely pleasurable in these circumstances,” Hannibal says suggestively, sipping his own wine delicately. Will’s face burns, and he wonders if they’re doing it intentionally, wonders if they’re hinting at a three-sum. His cock twitches in his pants at the thought, and he turns his eyes to stare at the fire.

“We’ve been here a few days now,” Will changes the subject finally, the intimacy almost unbearable, “I thought by now we’d…”

“I was waiting for you. Chiyoh will be nearby, should something go wrong. A look out, so to speak.”

Will tilts his head at her, “You’re okay with this?”

She blinks once and leans forward in her chair, “We are family, family does what needs to be done.”

\--------------------  
Later that night, when Chiyoh retires to her own room with a kiss on Hannibal’s cheek and a surprising one on Will’s, something flips in Will and he pins Hannibal to the couch as soon as her door clicks closed.

Hannibal expects it, his eyes fevered with want already, and he moans quietly beneath him. “Have you and Chiyoh had sex before?”

Hannibal huffs a laugh, his mouth going slack when Will forces his thighs apart and worms his way in between his slack covered legs, “We experimented, but never had penetrative sex, no.”

“Experimented?”

Hannibal smiles up at him, “We were very young. Teenagers. We kissed, some foreplay. Mere actions of curiosity and puberty fueled hormones.”

Will feels his face heat up again, and Hannibal reaches his fingers to touch his cheek, “You blush so beautifully. I find it fascinating how absolutely wicked you are when you have sex, yet so bashful at the mere mention of anything even remotely sexual.”

“I’m not bashful,” he says defensively, “I just don’t picture you going through puberty. I also don’t want to picture you being sexually active with anyone else, I’ve already had it in my head for years.”

“You desired Alana sexually, you also have a sexual attraction to Chiyoh.”

“Oh, God,” Will groans, leaning back to sit up just as Hannibal pulls him down again. “Did you fuck Alana because you knew I wanted to?”

“That was part of the reason.”

Will sits up, his legs on either side of Hannibal’s hips, his cock twitching at the way Hannibal’s hands hold his hips. “Why? That’s just… mean.”

Hannibal smiles, teeth and all, “I know this will come as a surprise to you, Will, but in many ways I am a mean person. As for why, I knew she would have sex with you eventually, she was sexually aroused around you, I smelled it. I did not want to share you with her. It was also beneficial to the rest of my plans to lure her closer.”

“You smelled it? Fuck,” he laughs uncomfortably, running a hand over his face and shifting, feeling the outline of Hannibal’s erection pressed between his legs. “So you made _me_ share you _and_ her?”

“Your jealousy was far less likely to lead to bloodshed, maybe some self-deprecation but nothing more sinister.”

Will reaches for Hannibal’s hands on his hips, slides one up his chest to rest over his heart. The playfulness in Hannibal’s eyes dissipates then, replaced with soft affection. “That was mean, though, you’re right. I’m sorry. Take comfort in knowing she ached for you first. I am just far more skilled in coercing people to get what I want.”

Will clenched his jaw, let out a deep breath, “It takes a lot more convincing to be with me. Even you wanted to watch me burn before you wanted to be with me.”

A fist tightens in Will’s shirt then, dragging him down roughly to look Hannibal right in the eyes. Will winces at the anger in them, “That ends right there, Will. Do you not realize how you consumed me? I ached for you daily. I drew you, composed music in your honor, I even considered buying a bottle of your atrocious aftershave to have your scent with me. I longed to hear your voice and feel your skin. I let you suffer so I could be your paddle, so you’d need me. Not because I had no interest in you being around. I thought your death would mean little to me, but then the prospect of it happening tore my heart from my chest. I’m insulted you’d feel this way.”

“Is it strange that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever been told?”

“Dear Will, I really could never predict you,” Hannibal murmurs, “But no, that does not surprise me. You take everything else in strides besides accepting how every fiber of your being is beautiful, inside and out.”

The fingers in his shirt gently release him, but Will holds himself up over Hannibal, eyes fluttering closed when long fingers play through his hair. “You’re gorgeous, you know,” he offers back, without opening his eyes, afraid that if he opens his eyes he will lose the nerve to say anything at all. “I was fascinated by you, how you moved, how you think, how you spoke. Not just the… pathology. But you, as a person. It was not that I found it hard to separate the man from the beast, but because it felt so easy to understand that they were one and the same and so beautiful.”

Hannibal’s hands still and he remains silent, and Will feels his nerves bubble over, “I’m sure you’ve been told that a million times by anyone who can speak. I can imagine those you’ve fucked just can’t get enough of you.”

“Open your eyes, Will. The world will not shatter and you’ll find no judgement here. You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” Will forces himself to comply, stupidly relieved at the look of pure affection in Hannibal’s dark eyes. “That is high praise coming from you, thank you. And why wonder such a thing, when you can find out for yourself.”

Will tenses against him, moaning when Hannibal presses soft kisses to his neck. He tries to imagine it, figured it was a natural progression of their relationship. It felt hypocritical to worry that Hannibal would roughly fuck him, but the thought terrified him. “I enjoy when you make love to me, Will. I would return that same feeling for you,” and it’s like Hannibal reads his mind.

“Okay,” he says, wincing at how desperate he sounds for it. Hates the way his stomach heats up when he feels Hannibal’s cock twitch against the inside of his thighs. “Have you, before, with a man?”

“Yes,” he says simply, “If you wonder, you must merely ask.”

“How many? When? With who?”

Hannibal laughs slightly, his teeth scraping gently against the sensitive skin of his neck and making Will squirm in response. “Quid pro quo. I’ll tell you my sexual history if you tell me yours.”

“Okay,” Will sighs, rocking down against Hannibal for friction.

Hannibal holds him tightly and shifts his hips, flipping them so Will lay on his back with Hannibal settled between his legs. “I was raped in the orphanage by men multiple times. My next experiences were with Chiyoh. I didn’t have sex until I was in Pre-Med. I had sex with Donald Sutcliffe during our residency. Multiple female nurses, one of our female instructors. During my time as a surgeon there were four men, six women, and one trans man. A few brief affairs with colleagues throughout my career. Then Alana and Bedelia multiple times. And you, obviously.”

“Uh—wow,” Will says awkwardly, forcing himself to stay looking up at Hannibal despite the instinct to look away. He isn’t sure if he should acknowledge the admission of his childhood, and instead he says, “No dates? And Doctor Sutcliffe? Really?”

“I chose him for your treatment because I knew he could be easily manipulated. As for dates, I suppose I haven’t gone on a date either, no. At least not in the formal, traditional capacity. I’ve had quiet evenings that served as a type of foreplay in their own respect.”

Will laughs slightly, “Even all those years later, the sex was so good he’d just do whatever you wanted.”

“Don’t deflect. Your turn.”

Will reaches up to touch the tip of Hannibal’s nose affectionately, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but mine is a lot shorter. I kissed three people in high school, one was a boy and then he told everyone. My dad found out and… beat the shit out of me,” he clears his throat, watching Hannibal’s eyes narrow, “Didn’t do anything again until college. Lost my virginity at twenty-three to a girl in my class. I asked if she wanted to go out for dinner, she said no thanks. Had sex with a girl when we were in the academy a few times. Went on three dates that weren’t dates, she stopped returning my calls. I kissed Alana and Chiyoh. Then… Molly, obviously. And that brings us to you.”

“Your father was homophobic,” Hannibal notes, tense.

“A lot of people were back then, especially where I was from. You two wouldn’t have gotten along, no happy family dinners for us.”

“That must’ve been distressing,” Hannibal adds, ignoring Will’s attempt at humor, and Will shushes him.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me when our erections are aching for even a tiny amount of friction,” he teases, pressing his hips up. “How kinky was the sex.”

“Depends on with who,” finally dropping the tension that seeped into him, but clearly filing it away for later. “I was never on the receiving end, but I enjoyed engaging for their pleasure.”

“So, what’s it like being on the other end?”

“Freeing,” Hannibal sighs, rocking down against him, “When you restrain and blindfold me, you’re the only thing I can focus on, and you’re so intensely focused on me. I’m completely at your mercy, it gives me butterflies and fills my head with the most blissful peace.”

“Fuck,” Will whispers, finally lurching forward to kiss Hannibal’s mouth, “Fuck, I want it,” he gasps.

“I want to take care of you,” Hannibal rasps, tugging Will’s slacks off his legs as they both sit up to pull themselves free of their shirts. Hannibal slithers from his slacks and immediately crouches between his legs. Will doesn’t miss the way his bones protrude from his skin, “You’ve lost so much weight,” he says softly, distractedly, “I mean, I saw, but it has gotten even more noticeable.” Will lets his eyes devour every inch of Hannibal’s exposed skin, from the fading bruises and scabbed cuts, to the way his collarbones, ribs, and hips protrude far more starkly than they had when they’d fallen from the cliff.

“As you’ve seen, it’s been difficult to keep food down,” Hannibal comments, just as softly, trailing warm kisses down Will’s stomach. “I apologize if that isn’t a look you find attractive,” and that is clearly more sarcastic, teasing, even though it’s little more than a breath.

Will lets his head fall back with a soft chuckle, his own hand coming up to tug at Hannibal’s growing hair as warm breath tickles his length, “I meant it out of concern, obviously. You have to take better care of yourself. You’ve been very sick for the past few—” the rest of his sentence is lost in a gasp, the conversation shelved for later, or never. Soft, hot kisses circle his cock, then his balls, and then his legs are pushed back and he’s completely exposed.

“Oh, fuck,” eyes squeezed tightly closed, small fireworks exploding behind his lids.

“Take a breath, Will. I won’t hurt you,” he reassures, “It’s just me and you. You can tell me to stop and I will, do you trust me?”

Will exhales sharply, feeling Hannibal’s breath against his hole, _”Yes.”_

The hot, wet tongue that laps at him steals the air from his lungs, and he wants to be ashamed of the noise he makes, but he can’t seem to find it in himself to care. Hannibal works him open with his tongue before slipping a finger in, and Will immediately finds himself feeling guilty he hadn’t even thought of doing this for Hannibal, wonders if he could bring himself to do it.

His train of thought is lost when Hannibal spits on him and adds another finger. “How do you feel, Will?”

“I’m going to be loud and Chiyoh is about fifteen feet away,” he pants, moaning loudly when fingertips find the soft spot in him that would make Hannibal spasm every time he touched it.

“Would you be open to sex with her as well?”

“Wait, fuck,” Will blinks to clear his thoughts, “Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think about that right now.”

Hannibal smirks up at him as he dips his mouth to suck Will into his mouth at the same time as he fingers him faster. Stars burst in Will’s brain and he wants more, wants to feel the burn and pain of Hannibal inside him. “No more, I want it now.”

The pop of Hannibal’s lips releasing him is obscene and one of the hottest sounds he’s ever heard. His dick leaks when Hannibal casually reaches into the table next to the couch for lube and coats both of them.

That initial thrust has them both gasping, his fingers digging into Hannibal and dragging him closer. “Nothing ever prepared me for what this feels like, Will,” Hannibal sighs into his skin, “I feel whole.”  
\-----------------------

Chiyoh is out back, her knife shaving off pieces of wood for whatever she is carving. Will watches her from the window for a few moments, pulled back when Hannibal gently touches his hand. “Are you having reservations?”

Will glances over at him, a small smile gracing his lips—Hannibal is dressed casual by his typical standards, but far more formally than he had in years. A button down tucked into slacks and a simple tie; his hair styled just so that it covers the scar on his head, dyed black now. They’d left his few-day stubble and added a pair of glasses to the look. He looks different, but he’s still distinctly Hannibal in every way that matters. Hannibal smiles back gently, waiting, “No. I’m… nervous?” Will wonders out loud, “I know we are hunting, but I’m more nervous about… this,” he jerks his chin forward and then looks away, back out the window.

Large hands pull him closer, arms encircling him into a hug from behind. For Will, they’d cut his hair short and shaved his face, making him look maybe a decade younger. His attire was much the same—slacks, a button down untucked, and a necktie that sat far more loosely on his throat than Hannibal’s did. “And what is this?” Hannibal teases warmly, his mouth pressing to Will’s ear and lower.

Will almost melts against him, almost, “A date.”

Large hands slide from his hips and lower, one resting on his belly and the other at the top of his slacks, fingers teasing the belt buckle. “I don’t remember you asking me on a date,” Hannibal rasps in his ear, voice husky. Will leans back against him, wondering if they had time for him to pin Hannibal to the counter one last time, in case—

Will cuts that train of thought and swallows tensely, “Sorry for assuming.”

“In all seriousness, Will, it is important you focus. A lapse of judgement or attention can be costly. In respect for our date, I’m eager for it.” Hands slide away and Will immediately misses them, then he flushes when Chiyoh clears her throat.

“Let us be on our way, then.”  
\-----------------------------

Will can’t identify how he feels when Hannibal slips their hands together and interlaces their fingers as they walk, but in another life he’d be happy. Instead, now, his eyes scan the small gatherings for anything of interest, whether it be someone noticing them, or them noticing someone. The town is a small fishing area, consisting largely of fisheries and farms. The one main street has a few smaller, run down restaurants, bars, and shops. The area is poorly lit with little cell service or Internet—clearly a reason in itself why it would appeal to Hannibal.

Will tries to focus on the people around him, as he thought was the plan, but Hannibal is hyper fixated on Will. It’s easy to be towed around by Hannibal, to a small, run down restaurant that Will notes has no cameras. He keeps looking around in what he hopes is nonchalantly while Hannibal speaks in Spanish to an older Cuban woman, who sits them in a corner of the dark restaurant and brings them two plates of food and a bottle of wine shortly after.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Hannibal muses, eyebrows raised curiously.

“I just… I’m not good at this,” he mumbles, chancing a look at Hannibal’s face again before focusing on his plate. Hannibal largely ignores the food, “You should eat, even a little.” Amused, Hannibal obliges, working slowly on the food.

“You have it engraved in your brain that you aren’t suitable company, but I’ve never once felt bored or uninterested in your presence.”

“Are we still… looking?”

Hannibal sips his wine, eyes never leaving Will, “A feast must present itself. As for us, if this will be the rest of our lives, perhaps we should work on growing more comfortable with intimate interactions that aren’t sexual in nature.”

Will makes a face and shovels some of the food into his mouth, “This is really good.”

“Fried plantains,” Hannibal offers, “Rice and beans, simple but a delicious native cuisine.”

“Did you know you have a lisp?” Will comments suddenly, jaw tensing, “Sorry, that was rude.”

Hannibal laughs softly, “Of course I knew, it’s also enunciated with an accent.”

“I notice it more when you try to whisper,” Will’s eyes flick up, finding no trace of annoyance on Hannibal’s face, “I… like it.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a relief, considering I haven’t lost it in all these years and we talk to one another an awful lot.”

They talk more casually after that, powering through the bottle of wine, Will noticing that Hannibal barely eats half of his plate. He files the additional concern away for later, evaluates his feelings on this experience and whether or not they could do this forever. Hannibal speaks quietly in Spanish to the woman again, leaves a large amount of pesos, and stands to offer his hand to Will.

A street band plays on the sidewalk, a small gathering of locals dancing in the streets, glasses and bottles of various alcohol spilling everywhere. They stop off to the side, observing the dancing, and for a moment it feels like they really are just two people on a date. Hannibal pulls him closer again, and Will tries to remind himself no one is paying attention to them, that the public displays of affection are the least of their worries. “Would you like to dance?”

Will almost chokes, pulling back slightly, looking up at Hannibal’s eyes through their glasses, “Me? Uh—no that’s—” Hannibal pulls one hand up to his neck and captures Will’s other in his. He can smell the wine on Hannibal’s breath, knows he didn’t eat enough or drink enough water to not be at least a little tipsy. Will himself is warm from it, and it’s almost on instinct he presses closer to Hannibal.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he whispers to break the silence, both of them peaking up at the stars above, “You can see the stars so well here.”

“A lack of light pollution,” Hannibal murmurs into his ear, his fingers squeezing Will’s when they sway slightly.

The fingers continue to caress and rub whatever space of Will they can, and it cracks a grin into Will’s mouth, “Your love language is physical touch, I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Love language,” Hannibal repeats thoughtfully, “I suppose I never considered that I had one.”

“I think we all do,” Will breathes, “We all like to give and receive love, and we all have a preference.” Will lets his fingers gently stroke Hannibal’s neck, smiling wider when the man almost purrs at the contact.

“Yours would be words of affirmation,” Hannibal observes, “It isn’t the words that embarrass you, it’s the fact that you enjoy them. The theory is that we develop this love language based on what we’ve craved and lacked from our youth.”

Before Will can respond, Hannibal tenses and stills against him, all the soft playfulness gone immediately.

“Cerdos repugnantes. Maricones,” someone slurs as they pass them. Will isn’t sure what they say, but he buries his face into Hannibal’s chest, “Feos cabrones de mierda.”

Hannibal growls in his chest, Will can hear it, “Are you okay, Hannibal?” He whispers, squeezing the other man tightly, they’d agreed to avoid using any names at all for now, but the need to retain Hannibal’s focus pushes the caution from his mind.

“The feast presents itself.”  
\--------------------------

Hannibal had stalked off, Will in tow, and down an alley. He said nothing to Will as he seemed to work through a plan in his mind. Will waits, watching the shift right before his eyes.

Hannibal leads the way then, following the man from the shadows as he stumbles home. It’s almost too easy, the way the man leaves the main road and cuts through a small wooded area and into a large field. Will feels his heart starting to race, staying just at the tree line when Hannibal prowls forward.

The man is intoxicated, but then again Hannibal isn’t completely sober either—Will watches as Hannibal drags the man down and back, a pocketknife flipped and open just as the other man bucks. The Cuban is large in both height and weight, not the target Will would choose in the current circumstances, but he knows there is no stopping Hannibal. They had planned for Hannibal to engage, for Will to join, and Chiyoh to watch from afar, just in case. It happens so suddenly, though, the way the large man yells something in Spanish gets Hannibal’s wrist in his fingers and pulls.

Hannibal grunts, twisting, an elbow colliding with his nose and knocking the glasses free just as Will mechanically grabs the nearest rock. He shoves Hannibal back and out of the way, blood soaking his face from his nose, and lets the rock collide once, twice, three times with the Cuban’s skull. Will hears nothing but ringing in his ears, the blood from the man’s head splattering, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop until Chiyoh grabs his arm and takes the rock from him and pulls him off.

She shakes him, pushing him towards Hannibal. Lecter is hunched in the grass, his clothes dirty and covered in blood from his nose. “Fuck,” Will moans, not for the first time, “Why did we do that?” Will gasps, dropping to his knees and tilting Hannibal’s face. Their crime scene is covered in evidence, their DNA, and Will imagines that their romance will end before it ever really begins. “Why did you do that?” Will repeats, his fingers tightening in Hannibal’s hair, and they’re both gasping, faces inches apart.

“He was rude,” small splatters of blood land on Will’s face when he talks from where it’s run onto his mouth and down his chin.

Will groans in an internal agony, endlessly tired of what they’re doing. Tired of always feeling like something terrible was about to happen. The marvelous, terrifying creature before him looks up at him with pleading eyes, clearly hoping to convey something to Will. Before Will can think about it more, Chiyoh is at their side again, “I’ll clean this up. I’ll get chemicals and make it look like a gang hit. There is a lot of gang activity in the area,” she reaches past Will to gently touch the back of Hannibal’s head, “Get him back to the boat, Will. Collect our supplies on the boat, we should leave for Italy sooner rather than later now.”

Her commanding tone leaves little room for argument, and she turns and hurries off into the small wooded area and out of sight. Hannibal turns and spits a mouth full of blood onto the dirt besides them, a disgustingly unpolite and uncharacteristic behavior on his part, but necessary nonetheless with the way the blood is running down his face and down the back of his throat from his sinuses. Will watches him for a moment when he coughs, wincing at the feeling, and then sighs tiredly.

Almost as if on cue, Will feels a few droplets of rain land on the back of his neck, and when he glances up, the night sky they’d looked at before had been overcast with clouds. He stands up from his crouch, looking down at Hannibal sitting in the dirt looking up at him expectantly. Will’s heart swells and bursts all at once, face contorting in seemingly undefined pain. Hannibal tilts his head and blinks once, a shaky arm coming up to run the sleeve of his now ruined button down over his mouth to wipe the blood away. It is almost immediately replenished with a fresh flow, although slower than it had been.

“Will,” he says quietly—not a question or a half thought, merely a statement. A warning, perhaps, an attempt to appeal to something in him. Will finds he can’t respond verbally, and instead just shakes his head. He had felt how badly Hannibal was shaking when he touched him, knew he wouldn’t be able to follow him now.

“I...We can’t do this, Hannibal. I can’t do this,” he says, his own voice trembling when he takes two steps back away from the dead body and the warm, tense one. The crime scene would leave behind two deaths if he left now, the man and their relationship.

“Will,” Hannibal tries again, clears his throat and slowly pushes himself up to his knees, “This didn’t go as planned, but does anything go as planned with us?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” even Will can hear the surprising sound of assurance in his own voice, as if he’d made up his mind before he even knew his decision.

“There would be no where you could go that I wouldn’t find you, Will,” to anyone else, that may sound like a threat, but now it sounded more like a reassuring promise. The raindrops start to fall more steadily now, and Will takes another step further back and away. “This isn’t the time for this, Will. I’ll admit this was impulsive, I’ll admit it wasn’t as planned, I’ll even admit to being the primary cause of our situation and everything that has led up to it.”

Will snorts, “That’s mighty big of you to take the smallest amount of personal responsibility for this,” his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Hannibal inhales deeply through his mouth, slowly rising from his knees to stand at his full height. Will can see the way he tilts slightly, almost stumbles, clearly unbalanced but desperate. “I can only offer you that, Will. I can’t reverse time. To leave me now would shatter the last teacup.”

He makes no attempt to come closer, yet, and Will knows he has a chance to run now and get a head start. Knows that, eventually, Hannibal would find him. There was only one way to break the cycle.

The sound that erupts from Will’s chest is animalistic as he closes the gap between them and shoves Hannibal back, landing on top of him. The air rushes from Hannibal’s lungs in a gush when the wind is knocked out of him, and Will takes the opportunity to press his thumbs against the man’s windpipe. “You’re right,” Will hisses, “The teacup would shatter if I left. I can put it back together by removing you from this planet. I’ll never be free of you—Alana, Margot, Molly, Walter… _Abigail, Beverly_ … every part of them will be tainted and ruined so long as you’re allowed to live. You should only exist in my head.”

Hannibal flounders under him, mouth opening and closing, fingers digging into whatever part of Will they can reach. The fight in him is reflexive, one that all humans resort to when they are faced with the fear of death. Almost boring that even Hannibal Lecter would try to cling to life on instinct.

A small squeak passes his lips and Will presses harder, feeling the jerk of his adam’s apple above his thumb and the give of his throat under the pressure. “Shhhhh,” he soothes, “We tried, and it just wasn’t meant to be. I have plenty of you in my memory palace.” The rain is coming harder now, and Hannibal tries to turn his face to keep it from running into his nose and mouth, drowning and suffocating at the same time.

“Will!” Chiyoh yells, landing a hard kick into his ribs to dislodge him from Hannibal’s torso and knock him to the side. Immediately, a gun is placed in his face when she gets between him and Hannibal. “How could you?”

Hannibal gasps for air, rolling towards them, “Chiyoh, don’t shoot him.”

Will looks between them, “ _Why?_ Hannibal, let me end this,” and Will is shocked to hear in her voice that she is crying.

“It wouldn’t end there,” Hannibal chokes, spluttering on water and trying to catch his breath, “To end Will Graham would be to end me as well.”

She sobs once, brokenly, “I never wanted any of this.” For the first time since he’d met her, Chiyoh’s hand shakes, the gun trembling in her grasp.

“Pull the trigger, Chiyoh. Then turn and shoot him too,” Will says calmly, offering her a small, comforting smile, “Let us go together.”

“Listen to me, Chiyoh,” Hannibal rasps, “You never wanted any of this. Your fate was sealed for you. I took your freedom from you. Let me give it back. Help us get to Italy together, let Will and I work this out together. In Italy we can arrange a new plan for you. We are family, you will always be my family.”

Will looks him right in the eyes then, his eyes adjusted enough to the darkened world to still see them clearly, he can hear the desperation in Hannibal’s voice like never before. He’s afraid, this time that they will not be able to recover from this. That he’d lost at his own game.

Her hand falls to her side with a sniffle, and she pushes the wet hair from her face with her free hand before turning back to her supplies. “Go to the boat, both of you. And you both better make it there in one piece.”

—————————

Will had cleaned the dried blood from Hannibal’s face and nose, and they’d changed into something dry before Will retrieved the rest of their supplies for the boat. They hadn’t planned on having to leave so fast, but Will was so emotionally drained he did not care.

When Chiyoh gets to the boat, soaked herself, she changes and spares them no attention before going on the deck to prepare them to cast off. Hannibal and Will had said nothing since Will helped him from the field to the boat, and he goes to silently follow her to help. She turns abruptly, “Do not follow me.”

So, he’s stuck with Hannibal, who looks bone tired and emotionally drained himself, the first shadows of a bruise forming on his throat in the shape of Will’s fingers.

“If you really, truly desire to leave, I’ll let you. No strings attached,” Hannibal finally says, dragging Will’s attention from where he’d began occupying himself with organizing their things. “I thought we’d made significant progress in the past few weeks with how we felt towards each other.”

“I never said the feelings were not real, I said this isn’t going to work. We are always going to hurt each other, and what kind of life is that?”

Hannibal is laying on the cot across the room, staring at the ceiling, “I’ll get better and we can go from there.”

“You’re purposely missing the point, Hannibal. I have no doubts you’ll get better. I have doubts that this fugitive lifestyle is one we can live together,” Will insists, exasperated. “You know exactly what I’m trying to say, don’t be dense. We can have a million nice moments together, but the other shoe will always fall.”

“Don’t you love me, Will? You said you did, but do you?”

Will swallows hard, “More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.”

“Then why run from this? Love isn’t logical or rational. You can’t outrun it, so why try to escape?”

“I think I can save the world from us. I can save us from ourselves, since eventually we will be apart again, by death, by choice, or by force,” Will chokes slightly on the words, as if they’re too much to swallow.

“A mercy killing won’t do, nor will removing us from this world save it. The world burns around us whether we are here or not, it’ll burn long after we are gone from this life. We are merely an accelerant for the flames, and we deserve a place here too,” Hannibal reaches a hand towards him without looking over, “I’ll forgive you time and time again, I ask you to forgive me too, Will. Let us make amends as we go. I’m afraid we are in uncharted waters, you and I. Love complicates the mind and complicates life.”

Will feels the tug forward and he comes to lay on the cot without much resistance, laying half over Hannibal and half next to him. “I really didn’t need my life complicated anymore than it already was.,” Will admits, defeated. “If we were gone, it would be a lot less complicated.”

“Death doesn’t uncomplicate a situation, it ends it prematurely,” Hannibal murmurs into his hair, his arms squeezing Will tightly to him, “I told you long ago I have to use apologies sparingly, less you’ll grow tired of them. You also, somewhere in your mind, think me uncapable of love and regret. You worry we will always be a game to win against the other. I assure you though, Will, I long for nothing more than to dance with you to feel you against me, to watch you complete the most mundane tasks of eating and manual labor, to bind us so far together every nerve ending is alive with pleasure. Those are real, tangible desires; I’m not merely the bloodthirsty animal your brain is afraid I am. We can have balance, if you’ll be truly open to it. We’ve already made much headway.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face to Hannibal’s chest, “I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry.”

He can hear Hannibal’s heart against his cheek, so real, alive, and raw—he can hear his lungs expand when he inhales and feel the fall of his chest when he exhales, “I forgive you,” he whispers, the boat coming to life beneath them, “I might’ve actually enjoyed that, had it been somewhere more comfortable.”

Will flushes, hiding his face deeper in Hannibal’s chest hair, “If we keep pushing the boundaries of sex, eventually we should make a safe word,” he replies, only half joking. “You have no concept of when to stop.”

Hannibal hums in his chest, “If a safe word would make you more comfortable, we can agree on one.”

“—That you’ll never use,” Will sighs, “But not right now. I want to rest and then go try to apologize to Chiyoh, see if I can get back in her good graces.”

“She’s quite fond of you, but I wish you the best of luck getting her to acknowledge that.”

Will chuckles, “Did she ask you for a three-sum?”

“No, that was just me. I haven’t discussed it with her yet, but I can if you want me to.”

“Fuck,” his mind starts to wander, exactly what he knows Hannibal was hoping for, “It’s nap time. Take a nap. You’re tired, I’m tired, she hates us and make up sex will probably make her more mad. Behave so I can go help her in a few hours, after she cools off.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond to that, and instead they shut their eyes and try to rest. Surprisingly, Hannibal’s muscles go lax with sleep relatively quickly, leaving Will to open his eyes and watch his face while he sleeps. He stays like that for a long time, unable to find sleep himself but watching Hannibal instead, before he presses a gentle kiss to his cheek and slips from the cot to join Chiyoh on the deck. She’s standing at the bow looking over the water, land already lost to the clouds and night. The sun will be rising in a few hours, he knows. He wants to ask her how she cleaned up, what she plans to do, anything. Instead, he comes to stand next to her, hesitantly placing a hand over hers where it clutches the railing. She looks down at their hands, and Will waits, ready to accept whatever she does. She turns slowly then, hesitant herself, and wraps her arms around his middle in a hug. He returns it naturally, and they stand like that for a few minutes in silence before she breaks it off and heads back towards the controls.


	13. Hesitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hesitation: Pausing prior to doing or saying something, typically as a result of reservation or uncertainty; to wait briefly before taking action or speaking, usually as a result of concern, fear, or having second thoughts about the behavior or words to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so one last chapter after this and an Epilogue. For those who have been reading, thank you! I hope you enjoy it. This is a longer chapter, the last will be a bit shorter, and the Epilogue will more than likely be a self-serving follow-up. Chapter 14 is written, so I have an ending. The Epilogue will develop with it's own life eventually.
> 
> Un'Beta'd-- I do my best to edit and revise, but not much is harder than trying to catch your own mistakes (in writing and otherwise, but that is another story).

If you asked Will what would kill Hannibal Lecter, he’d say nothing. He’d pause and arrive at the conclusion the man was immortal. Illogical, improbable, _impossible,_ but it would be the only viable option. Next he would go with old age, naturally, but the thought of Hannibal, old and frail, would seem distant and equally as impossible as being immortal. A bullet, a murder gone wrong, a random act of violence—all so foreign and laughable and mundane. That is why Will feels so confused and disconnected from the fact that he cradles Hannibal’s head and holds him up while he vomits violently into a bucket, the boat rocking dramatically in the storm. He does the math—the scary, terrifying math—Hannibal hasn’t eaten in five days aside from three mouth fulls that were promptly puked up within minutes, and he’d hardly eaten in the weeks leading up to this leg of their journey. Water, the most important and life sustaining substance of all, had been uselessly forced down his throat despite his resistance to it. Will all but begged him to drink, holding him up and tipping the water into his mouth, bursting with somewhat hysterical and delusional laughter when Hannibal choked as he tipped it too much and spilled it all over his face as if they weren’t wasting their resources.

Chiyoh’s face bears the serious lines of someone pretending she isn’t concerned, but she hovers on the stairs, looking worn and aged beyond her natural years, and watches Will coax Hannibal to do anything remotely resembling living. He looks up at her and smiles slightly, “He drank a few ounces of water about 45 minutes ago and some medication, hasn’t thrown it up yet,” he says proudly, as if that alone is enough and a sign that they’re okay. She smiles sadly back and nods reassuringly. She leans on the wall when the boat gallops over a wave a little bigger than the others, and as if on cue Hannibal gags, and Will feels that same hysterical laugh bubble out of his chest when he helps support Hannibal’s weakened neck. There isn’t much for Hannibal to give, the slimy mixture dribbling from his face and half landing on himself and half into the bucket on the floor. Will holds him up tightly, petting his head like he would a terrified dog, “You’re okay,” he comforts, and even to his own ears, he doesn’t sound convincing. “Get it out and we will try again, a little food and some more water.” He’d said that same sentence a lot over the past few days, realized he should’ve said it more since they crawled from the ocean. Hannibal hadn’t been nourished or hydrated properly since they fell from the cliff, Will calculates that had been… months ago? Weeks? Helplessly, he tries to collect his thoughts and a timeline, distracted when Hannibal hums in neutral agreement and tries to turn to bury his face into Will’s shoulder tiredly.

He tries to say something, Will strains to hear it clearly, but his mouth sounds sticky and uncooperative, he’d noticed how gooey his saliva had gotten—a sure sign of dehydration—days ago when he’d kissed him on the mouth. Now he shivers and sighs, giving up trying to speak clearly, content just to lay against Will with his eyes closed. “Come on, let’s try again,” Will insists, turning to prop Hannibal up against the cabin wall without looking at his pale and sunken face.

He’d heated up a packet of soup, long gone cold now, and with a shaking hand he raises a spoonful to Hannibal’s cracked lips. “No, Hannibal, you have to,” he insists, pressing the spoon more firmly forward when Hannibal turns his face slightly, face pinched in discomfort.

Anger builds in his chest, because Will fucking hates this. Hates that they’re on this fucking boat and Hannibal hardly opens his eyes anymore and that severe motion sickness in conjunction with a head injury has resulted in extended malnutrition and dehydration that just perpetrates a cycle of critical illness. He’s pissed off that he feels like he’s all alone, again. “Open your fucking mouth,” he hisses, tears burning his eyes, prepared to force the spoon between thin lips if it comes to it. Hannibal exhales shakily, eyes opening with some effort to peer at will drearily.

“Will,” Chiyoh says gently at his side, her hand gently touching his hair, “He’s not well, Will.” Her voice is soothing, a gentle reminder not to lose himself to this overbearing frustration.

Will wants to tell her to fuck off with pointing out the obvious, but then he finally raises his eyes to Hannibal’s and finds the man looking back at him with cloudy, unfocused vision and a deep-rooted admiration and affection. He drops the spoon back into the soup in defeat, reaching to pull Hannibal to him again in a half embrace; he’s cold to the touch and seeks Will’s warmth almost instinctively. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, to Hannibal or Chiyoh, he isn’t sure, probably both. Maybe himself a little too. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”

Chiyoh sits on the bed behind Will, pulling them both towards her. Will goes willingly, resting his head against her and holding Hannibal to them. She starts speaking softly in a language Will doesn’t understand, but had heard them whispering to each other before. Hannibal perks up slightly, grumbles in his chest and weakly clears his throat, mumbles something back in the same language, his tongue sounding sticky and heavy.

“What are you saying?”

“A story,” Chiyoh smiles, pressing a kiss to Will’s hair, “From our childhood. Lady Murasaki used to recite it to us when we were small. Hannibal has been very sick before, when he found us. He was so small,” she says fondly, her hand rising from Will’s arm to pet through Hannibal’s hair lovingly. Will feels his eyes burn again with unshed tears. He tightens his hand in Hannibal’s hand, resigned to know and hear, in case Hannibal never got to tell him himself.

He closes his eyes, holding the sweaty and chilled hand tightly with one, the other slowly petting up and down the fur of his sternum, _your love language is physical touch, does this help at all?_ he wants to ask, but instead he says, “Can you tell me about him, then?”

Chiyoh hesitates, probably wondering if Hannibal would approve, waiting for a sign that he doesn’t. “He was… haunting,” she starts quietly, “but beautiful. I was young, but he was… I was fascinated by him. I remember how silently and gracefully he’d move, how he’d see something once and be able to copy it. He’d draw me pictures and taught me to play chess, all without speaking a word. At night, he’d scream himself hoarse until Lady Murasaki would go to him and wake him. And then it was an enduring and mournful silence. I’d watch from the doorway how he’d flinch away from her, and I just remember being so drawn to him. I was so small, so young, but I felt like he came to us so I would have someone to look after. He loved me so fiercely, he had no fear when the sun was up. He’d face animals and people alike, a real terror too, always getting us into trouble.”

Will smiles gently, picturing the two of them wandering about, “Once he took me to town and we stole some pastries, the old man of the bakery chased us until we hid in an old barn with a tired mare. I’ll never forget how he gave me his piece, fresh and sticky with blueberries, and he had the biggest grin on his face. He picked me up so I could feed some to that tired old horse.”

“Sounds like him, doing something just because he can get away with it,” Will muses.

“You speak of me like I’m already dead, it’s a memory, not my obituary,” Hannibal rumbles slowly, “Chiyoh seems to have forgotten none of our antics were ever my idea. Clever and cunning little girl she was, I merely put action to her plans.”

Will laughs slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Hannibal’s head, his lips brushing against the puckered scar on his scalp. “Okay, they were my idea. He just never wanted me to get into trouble, and he was so good at being sneaky and charming his way out of everything.”

“That is much more accurate,” Hannibal comments, “She set her mind to it and I made it happen. I also prefer discreet, not sneaky.”

They’re quiet for a few moments after that before Chiyoh slowly extracts herself from the cot, “I have to go tend to the navigation. The radar seems to show that the worst of that storm is behind us, hopefully smoother waters ahead.”  
Will laughs, squeezes Hannibal to him, “That would be—I really hope so.”

Later, before Will goes to switch with Chiyoh for a few hours, Hannibal is sitting up looking like absolute shit. Will pictures him much smaller, weaker, frail, even. That fear of being touched would’ve been tough to break, but now Will places a hand on his knee and Hannibal covers it with one of his own. “When did touch become a comfort and not a trauma?” he asks gently, sliding closer and pushing a water bottle into Hannibal’s free hand.

“Will, if you feel as though this information changes some element of who I am, I feel inclined to tell you—”

“Of course not,” Will reassures quickly, “Nothing _explains_ you, Hannibal. It is all piece of you though, and those experiences shape emotional elements, and you’re not immune to that.”

Hannibal rubs his thumb over Will’s knuckles thoughtfully, “Alright. I suppose there was no point in time the transition occurred. Eventually I started initiating contact with others, but by the time I realized I liked it, it was necessary for me to remain guarded and distant, vulnerability could’ve been disastrous.”

“You’re so receptive of it now.”

“I’ve nothing to hide from with you,” Hannibal responds easily, freeing his hand from Will’s to run it through his own limp, oily hair.

“When did the nightmares stop?”

“They didn’t,” he states simply, “they merely have become less and less frequent, and I’ve grown more capable of handling them.”

“Internalizing them, you mean,” Will supplies, “You should tell me when they happen. We shouldn’t keep those weights from each other.”

“If you wish to know, I’ll tell you,” Hannibal agrees, looking down dejectedly at the water bottle as if it committed some kind of personal offense. 

“When we get to land, you’re going to start eating again, I don’t fucking care how uninterested you are in food,” Will states bluntly, taking the bottle of water from Hannibal’s trembling hand and carefully helping him take slow mouthfuls.

“Yes, Will,” he agrees quietly.

“You know better, and you let it get this bad,” Will accuses with little conviction.

“The brain and body do not always operate based on logic and knowledge, you know this better than anyone, Will.”

Will pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply to calm himself, then he looks over at Hannibal. The man looks destroyed, his eyes hollowed, skin around his eyes dark and nearly translucent; Hannibal shivers slightly, but a gentle smile graces his chapped lips. Will smiles back, then, “When you’re feeling better, we will have a nice dinner and some wine—good wine, the stuff you used to drink that I couldn’t pronounce—and after, I want to tie you down and blindfold you. I want you to beg for it, and I’ll take my time, because we will have all the time in the world.”

Hannibal’s smile widens, revealing crooked teeth, “I’d want nothing more.”

\------------------------------ 

There is no true relief until they made landfall, and Will still can’t rest until they’re settled in a small cabin in the outskirts of the city. Hannibal sleeps on and off while Chiyoh drives, and it’s clear the three of them just want to end their trip. Will has never hoped boating was not in their immediate future again any time soon more than he did when they finally close the door behind them.

Hannibal beelines for the bathroom to shower by himself while Chiyoh and Will organize the house. They had struggled to help him wash properly on the boat, with how unbalanced and weak he’d been. He deserved to shower on his own. “Where is Bedila?”

“I tracked her through bank transactions, I know exactly where she is. I will take you both there when Hannibal is ready.” It doesn’t answer the question, but Will doesn’t push for more. “Freddie Lounds published that article,” she adds quickly.

“Anything we should worry about?”

Chiyoh shrugs, “She made herself out to be the escaped hero, the one who risked it all to tell the story. She said Hannibal was injured severely, potentially fatally. She also said she tried to stop him from leaving, but he got away.”

Will’s brows furrow, “No mention of me?”

“No.”

He files that away for later, curious and concerned. Lounds wouldn’t do that without a motive.

Instead of dwelling more, he makes toast and brings it to the bedroom—its decorated far more like Hannibal would approve of. Clearly, he’d spent more time and effort making this location one he’d enjoy, potentially hoping it would be a more long-term residence. Will hoped the same.

Hannibal is on the bed, looking far better than he had the whole trip, potentially since they fell from the cliff, aside from how thin he is. “Toast and water,” Will states, looking at Hannibal expectantly.

Hannibal says nothing as he tugs on pajama bottoms and sits again to carefully crunch into the toast, “Dry toast, exactly what I was in the mood for,” he jokes.

Will flicks his ear, “There wasn’t any butter. This is left over bread from what we brought on the boat.”

“Butter is perishable,” Hannibal explains easily, “We will restock food for real meals tomorrow.”

“Says the man who hasn’t eaten more than a few bites in weeks.”

Hannibal ignores him and powers through the toast slowly, and the entire glass of water, Will assumes to appease him. It works, and Will feels a weight drop from his shoulders in relief when Hannibal puts the empty plate on the nightstand.

“Thank you, Will. You’ve been—” Will kisses him with no hesitation, something he’d done sparingly due to the cotton mouth and vomiting, “—Extremely accommodating and thoughtful. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

“I’ve been an asshole.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows and lays back against the pillow with a groan, “Maybe a little, but I’d venture that’s a term that many would use for me as well. I forgive you, and I’ll forgive you when you do it again.”

Will crawls over him, buries his face in Hannibal’s neck and inhales, the smell of sweat and throw up gone and replaced with Hannibal’s soap, “You kept your soap here. This bed is far more comfortable than the others. The place is decorated.”

“Yes, I had hoped this would be our first stop initially,” _When the three of us would’ve left_ remains unspoken.

“There are only two beds.”

Hannibal’s fingertips trace his spine, “I had hoped we’d do exactly what we are doing now.”

“And what if I didn’t want to?”

Will peppers kisses on the damp skin at the base of Hannibal’s neck, his heart speeding up at the way he tips his head back to give better access, _permission_ , “Then I would’ve slept on the couch until you were ready, and eventually would’ve gotten another bed.”

“You, on the couch?” Will feigns shock.

“Will, my preferences for comfort and luxury are just my tastes, but you severely overestimate their importance in my life. I am adaptable.”

Will imagines, once upon a time, Hannibal had endured a lot of less than luxurious conditions he had to adapt to, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “Oh, good to know. I’ll go grab us Taco Bell, then.”

“I will resume my fasting, this time in protest. If you want tacos I can prepare them,” and then Will is kissing him again, deeper and more passionately. Will wants this to be their bed for awhile, as long as possible, in fact he doesn’t want to leave this room for at least a year.

“What if we don’t go for Bedelia?” Will whispers, his fingers stroking Hannibal’s cheek, “What if we wait? I don’t want to move right away. Lounds published the article.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, said you were hurt, maybe even fatally. Said she tried to stop you from escaping but you got away, and she didn’t mention me.”

Hannibal hums, “She probably is in contact with Jack, if not the FBI. There is a reason she did that.”

“I thought the same, but I’m not sure what yet.”

Hannibal looks at him carefully, “We can wait for a little while. Give me time to recover. I imagine we will move temporarily and lay low, and then we can return eventually. I think you’ll find my properties in Europe far more to your tastes than the previous ones. Once we remove her from the picture, we can find a routine.” Hannibal’s fingers rub the scar on Will’s cheek—Hannibal had been so unbothered by it that Will nearly forgot it was there aside from the tightness of the skin when he spoke or moved his mouth.

“Where else do you have them?”

“Prague, France, Belgium, Germany, and Denmark.”

Will raises his eyebrow and rolls onto his back, and immediately Hannibal turns over to lay half on top of him again. Always seeking more contact, Will thinks tenderly, “I can’t even fucking fathom how you pulled all this off. You’re the fugitive that all other criminals are jealous of.”

“The problem with being a criminal is that you’re still a criminal whether or not you’re committing crimes in that moment. I could stop now, forever, and still be a criminal. You plan before the crimes, not after. Always know you’re living on borrowed time, don’t wait until you’re being forced to make a escape to make a plan and never bury your roots too deeply in the ground.”

Will bit his lip, “Good thing most criminals are not that smart, resourceful, and frankly too broke to plan like this, the FBI would be even more incompetent than they already are.”

“They have to exercise within the parameters set by them with budgeting, the law, and bureaucratic nonsense—I’m restrained by no such constraints and therefore operate at an advantage. They also hold little jurisdiction internationally and run into extensive other slowdowns when things cross those lines. I’m known in Italy, which is why it best we leave here as well sooner rather than later.”

“ _Il Mostro,_ ” Will acknowledges, “a young and aspiring killer.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal purrs, nuzzling against Will’s chest, “Let us remove Bedelia from this life and you can pick our next location. I assure you I’ll remain on my best behavior to allow us some time to settle and reverie in domestic bliss.”

They leave it there for the time being, and instead Hannibal slithers up to straddle Will’s hips. He wants to blush or pretend he’s surprised when Hannibal retrieves lubricant from the nightstand, placed there meticulously, because he had hoped they would share this room together. Will’s fingers leave red marks on Hannibal’s hips when he sinks down and pushes him inside inch by burning inch. Will watches his face as he rides him with a keen desperation, gifting him the touch he craves by sitting up to press kisses to his collarbones and run his hands over every inch of skin.

“You must’ve been so touch starved,” he pants, shivering at Hannibal’s answering moan, “It must’ve been agonizing, to be in so much pain at such a young age, craving the creature comfort of being held and being so utterly terrified of it all at once, not being able to ask for it.”

Hannibal’s fingers dig into Will’s back and cling to him, his hips moving in jerky motions at increasing speed. He says nothing, so Will continues, “Did anyone touch you in prison? Did you take any comfort in them restraining you? Did you jerk off?”

“ _Will,_ ” Hannibal sighs into his hair, “No, none of those. I only thought of you touching me, and in my mind palace you often did.”

Human contact was the purest form of connection and bonding, with even the most hardened individuals craving the closeness from someone they loved. Will had felt the pain of going without it during his prison stay, but to wait years, to have so much taken so quickly like Hannibal did, Will almost wanted to imagine it was a cruelty, regardless of how deserved it might be. Will leans back, wraps his hand around Hannibal’s cock, smiling wickedly at how desperately he whines at the contact, coming unraveled right before his eyes, “How did the memory palace compare to the real thing?”

There is a brief moment of silence, and Will watches a million emotions flash behind Hannibal’s dark eyes in a matter of a second before he hides the feelings back in their depths again. It’s too late though, Will already saw them and Hannibal knows too, his jaw tenses and his ragged breathing turns to gasps when he shuts his eyes to break the overwhelming intimacy shared in their gaze. “It didn’t,” Hannibal chokes out around a moan, and cums in hot spurts all over Will’s chest, the clenching on Will’s own dragging him over the edge too. Will didn’t anticipate the lost look in Hannibal’s eyes that confronted him when Hannibal finally looked at him again, still hovering over him. Muscles in Hannibal’s arms and legs quiver with weakness, clearly largely out of use, his gaze hesitant and his expression clearly trying to mask what had been exposed to Will. Will doesn’t think twice about pulling him down to lay against his chest, both of them sticky and relatively gross. Will strokes his back, his hair, his face, offering every shred of contact he can.

“You’ll never have to think about it again,” Will reassures, “You’ll never have to ask or do without. I promise.”

\------------------------------ 

Will fidgets in the living room, his hair gelled to the side, his face neatly trimmed. The cuffs of his shirt are buttoned with cufflinks, after Hannibal insisted tirelessly and fussed over Will for nearly an hour to make him look exactly how he wanted.

When they stood side by side in the mirror, Will couldn’t even be annoyed at the attention after seeing how Hannibal’s eyes ravish him. “You look wonderful,” he breathes, and there is a thrumming excitement bubbling in Hannibal that Will senses as if it was his own.

How could he deny him anything?

They’d planned for almost a month now, Chiyoh mapping the area and observing, watching Bedelia to memorize every moment of her routine and every inch of the area surrounding her home.

Will and Hannibal focus on their needs in preparation of what is to come. Will fusses over Hannibal nearly obsessively, all but forcing calories and water into his mouth. 

_  
“I’m a medical professional, Will, I don’t need—”_

_“Do you still feel sick?” Will interrupts, ignoring him._

_Hannibal sighed, “No. It passed,” he says quietly._

_“You’re lucky I don’t start weighing you,” Will warns gently, running his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. Deft fingers prod at his shoulder blades, skimming down the knobs of Hannibal’s back, reveling in how he can feel his entire body move with life. There is life in Hannibal’s body, a whole existence and world and memories, pain, suffering, both his own and that he’s caused… There is also joy, there is love, there is hope, wit… Will reads it in his body through the outline of his skeleton like he’s reading braille._

_“None of this is necessary, Will,” he murmured, but he pressed as close as he could to Will. It was strange, almost ironic, that it would be food that would be his biggest struggle in their new life. A combination of recovery, physically and mentally, and ongoing lack of nutrition and proper hydration had persisted for much of the journey. Will didn’t falter, didn’t even think twice about assuming the role of caregiver now, and after everything Hannibal finds he just… wants to let it happen._

_“It is necessary,” Will insists, “Things got out of hand, Hannibal. We aren’t going to see Bedelia until we are sure you’re well enough to handle this.”_

__

They enter a tedious balance between Will overcompensating for his previous failures to care for Hannibal at all. His current state was largely his own fault, Will had concluded, only half justified. If Hannibal realizes that, he doesn’t say anything.

Days go by, and they plan, they eat, and they have sex. In a lot of ways, Will wishes they could stay like this forever, suspended in time with nothing happening. That isn’t their lives, though, it isn’t who they are—it never has been and it never will be.

Doesn’t mean Will can’t enjoy the way Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with amusement when Will praises him for eating whatever Will insists on, or the way he gets to make a show of running his hands all over Hannibal’s bare skin, under the ruse merely checking for proper healing and to examine how the sharpness of his bones slowly fades behind slight cushion of skin.

The weeks give them time to just be together, be it just cuddling or talking. Gives Will time to love every inch of Hannibal’s body, gives Will a seemingly endless stretch of time to tie blindfolds over his eyes and place a palm on his throat. Sparks burn in Will’s belly when Hannibal’s panting is cut off by the pressure, mouth opening on a silent plea when Will presses inside him harder. “Do you like that?” Will questions when he lets up, listening to Hannibal suck the air back into his lungs and moan quietly.

“Yes,” he rasps, tilting his head back when Will puts pressure on his throat again. If anyone felt the way Hannibal’s pulse races under his fingers, they’d assume there was no way this was the man who killed all those people. Will himself could almost forget, if he closed his eyes and just let himself feel.

They grow so comfortable together, like two perfect puzzle pieces, that Will almost wants to try to find a way to convince him to forget the whole thing—let it go and move on. Not to risk what they have here.

It was hard to mask the disappointment when Hannibal emerged from the bathroom one night after a shower, and Will saw his ribs were far less pronounced, his collarbones and hips jutting less starkly. He looks better, healthy, and Will knows their time has come.

When Hannibal joins him in the living room, then, days after that final revelation, Will feels emotional. Hannibal smiles at him, all teeth, dressed in a suit he’d kept stashed here that brings Will right back to dinners they had shared in Baltimore. Will wishes he could say something, anything, to hold off on this, but the way Hannibal comes to him and kisses him, the way he looks so happy, Will just tries to smile back.

It’s clear Bedelia was waiting for them, she doesn’t even seem surprised. In fact, she is sitting by a fire with a glass of wine in hand, hardly sparing them a glance when they navigate from the door they’d entered through quietly. “Hello, Hannibal. Will,” she sighed, her blonde hair glowing by the fire light, “There are glasses in the kitchen. Please, help yourselves.”

They do, and they join her by the fire. Will feels uncomfortable, self-conscious even, when she turns to them knowingly. “I see you’ve found your way to each other,” she muses, “You look well.”

“Will has done wonders for me,” Hannibal says cheerfully, “You look beautiful as ever, of course.”

She smiles slightly, turning her eyes to Will, “Do you find your hunger sated, Will?”

He gulps his wine and says nothing, looking to Hannibal, who looks more than pleased with himself. This is everything he’d wanted, of course. “Freddie Lounds published that you were wounded, perhaps fatally,” Bedelia wonders, sniffing her wine, moving on from her question with the silence being her answer.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, ignores her probing, “Since when have you taken an interest in what Ms. Lounds publishes?”

“Since she called me for an interview. More than once.”

Hannibal hums, reaching casually across the gap for Will’s hand. Bedelia’s eyes track the movement, then she smiles softly. “It seems you’ve finally been able to have what you truly desired, Hannibal. Do you allow yourself to be possessed, Will? Does his obsession with you burn so acutely that you’ve been entrapped in the flames?”

“He doesn’t own me,” Will finally speaks up, not shying away from Hannibal’s hand, “Are you jealous?” The taunt is childish, pointless really, but it makes Hannibal smirk.

“Hannibal sated me plenty during our adventures,” she offers.

“I do more than sate him,” Will says darkly, leaning towards her, “And we are here for our reckoning.”

“Now, now,” Hannibal chides, “There is no need for jealousy and pettiness. Let us not spoil the evening.”

Bedelia chuckles, “Do _you_ allow yourself to be possessed, Hannibal? Perhaps it was always Will who held the leash.”

“I allow Will whatever he desires, something I’ve never done with another,” Hannibal acknowledges, and her eyes drift to the light bruises on his throat, barely visible over the collar of his shirt, “We share a passion completely new to me.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found someone you allow to dominate you,” she’s antagonizing them, and they all know it, “I’m sure the two of you make for an erotic and beautiful picture.”

Hannibal stands then, suddenly, his forearm pressed against her neck in a flash. The wine glass shatters from her hand and her eyes go wide, looking directly into Will’s. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Bedelia. But I find I’ve grown bored of this quicker than I anticipated, and I’d like to enjoy our meal and get back to our life so I can revel in that domination again, as you put it.”

There is no malice in the words, and Hannibal isn’t offended or bothered. He’s gentle when he carries her unconscious body to the bedroom, Will following, before he turns and shoves Will back against the wall of her room. “You didn’t seem embarrassed,” Hannibal comments between kisses, “Usually you’re far less inclined to discuss sex.”

Will turns them and pins Hannibal to the wall with his full body, “I didn’t like the idea of her thinking she had something I didn’t, or that she had something that we didn’t.”

“You two are not comparable,” Hannibal agrees, gasping when Will bites his neck.

“You’d never allow her this,” Will states, a threat as much as an acknowledgement.

Hannibal laughs breathlessly, “Your jealousy is completely unwarranted. I’d never allow her, nor anyone else, what I allow you.”

Will winds up sucking Hannibal off while the man barely holds his stance against the wall and Bedelia lays prone on the bed. It’s intense, Will knows Hannibal can feel it too, especially when his long fingers tangle tightly in Will’s hair, his breathless words lost in another language. Will wonders what happened to him when he swallows so carelessly, slithering back up to press an opened mouth kiss to Hannibal’s to force the other man to taste himself. “Fuck,” Hannibal rumbled into his mouth, letting out a slight, breathy chuckle.

“How uncharacteristically ineloquent of you,” Will teased, pressing a slight kiss to one of the bruises on Hannibal’s neck.

Reciprocity isn’t on Will’s mind right now, and he pushes Hannibal back when he reaches for Will in return. “Not right now,” Will smiles slightly when Hannibal’s eyes narrow at him, “I believed we promised her a reckoning.”

\------------------------------ 

Removing someone’s leg is far more difficult than Will imagined, especially when you’re actively trying not to kill the person and said person is still alive. Hannibal had injected her with a paralytic and a numbing agent, and he offered her a polite smile when she slowly came back to consciousness in the middle of the process. “Hello again, Bedelia. Do remain as still as possible for the time being. The more you try to struggle the more distressing this will be for you.”

Her eyes go wide as she watches them, and Will lets himself observe what the fear does to her. He’s being given a rare gift, again, to see Hannibal at work, wonders how terrified all of his other victims had been. If he’d offered them any ounce of the same respect. “I gave you some basic medications to reduce your pain and numb your body, as well as a paralytic to keep you conscious but immobile. I’ll be amputating your leg at the hip—it was very considerate of you to be wearing a dress. I apologize for the lack of modesty I can afford you, under the conditions its very difficult to situate you in a way that conceals your nudity but allows for practical access to your limb.”

Will feels a pang of pity when Hannibal hikes her dress up and gently lowers her panties and slips them off. He finds himself wondering how many times he’d done that for totally different reasons. Bedelia looks into Will’s eyes with a burning question of if he would interfere—he could end this right now. Hannibal would never see it coming and it would be over before his brain could recognize that he’d been betrayed by Will, again. If he does not act now, there would really be no going back, no pretending that he’d been held captive against his will.

Instead, he asks, “Where did Chiyoh get all this?”

Hannibal smiles up at him from where he’d crouched, “I don’t question her. I tell her what we need, she makes it happen. Brilliant, clever, and resourceful woman she is.” That she was, procuring a bone saw, various medications, and some other tools that Will wasn’t totally familiar with by sight alone. “Would you like to assist me, Will? I know you have a strong stomach, but I’m not sure how far your empathy and guilt will allow you to partake before causing you acute distress.”

The comment is very self-aware, and in itself empathetic, offering a strange dynamic of being both considerate and genuine towards Will in regards to his level of comfort in assisting him with a forced amputation. “I think this is best left to an expert,” he says neutrally, stepping back to sit in a chair at the far side of the room.

Hannibal nods once in acceptance, and then gets to work. Bedelia’s emotions range from resignation to pure horror, and Will watches the whole scene unfold. Hannibal is quick and efficient; a trained surgeon and a skilled killer being two skill sets that make the whole process shockingly quick and mostly seeming effortless. Will imagines he’d butcher the whole process, but he focuses on how Hannibal moves. “You’re beautiful,” Will whispers, licking his lips when Hannibal’s eyes dart up to meet his as if he’d forgotten Will was still in the room, then he smiles slightly before returning his focus to his work.

After, Bedelia is hooked up to an IV and Hannibal is in the kitchen preparing the meat while Will sips on more wine. “Perhaps you’d be interested in helping with the preparations?” Hannibal’s voice sounds deeper, like molasses and honey.

“I don’t want to get in the way or ruin it.”

The look Hannibal gives him is a mixture of longing and hunger, “I insist you stop thinking like that. If you have an interest in trying, I’m here to show you.”

It’s an out of body experience when he steps up to the counter and Hannibal comes to stand behind him, pressed flush against his back. He never imagined having the other man guiding his hands through cuts of human flesh would be so erotic, but he finds himself slightly out of breath and ten degrees hotter within in minutes.

“You’re a natural,” Hannibal mumbles, nuzzling the side of his neck, “I should like to take you right here.”

Will chuckles once, “If I let you, maybe I would pin _you_ to the counter and take you.” Hannibal’s hands squeeze his hips, his breath leaving his mouth in a rush against Will’s neck. “You already finished a few hours ago, could you go again so soon?” Will teases, cleaning his hands on the dishtowel and turning to lean back against the counter.

“I could,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to Will’s lips, “But I believe we should have our meal and finish our business here. There is plenty of time for these unhygienic kitchen activities in the future.”

“Good excuse.” Hannibal growls, burying his face in Will’s neck and pressing his hips forward, his erection pressing and apparent. Will laughs, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nap of the taller man’s neck, “Okay, okay. So, what next?”

Hannibal talks to him as he prepares the rest of the meal and begins it’s cooking. They decide to cook less than the full leg, which would take hours to cook, and instead prepare smaller portions. Hannibal is surprisingly animated, clearly engrossed in his activity and the fact that he’s sharing this so openly with Will. “You’re happy,” Will observes out loud, accepting a refill of wine with a smile.

“I am indeed,” Hannibal sips his own wine, “I wasn’t sure this would ever come to fruition. I hoped and imagined, but to have you standing here now, Will, is more than even I could ask for.”

“Have you ever been happy before?”

Hannibal regards him analytically for a moment, a pensive hesitation in his eyes: “I’d come to be content,” he says carefully, “Happiness is subjective and often objective.”

Will raises his eyebrows, “You seemed happy in your memories with Chiyoh.”

Hannibal breaks eye contact to resume his preparations, “As I’m certain you can imagine, I was a very strange child, coupled with experiencing severe and violent trauma, I came to feel very little. I felt responsible for Chiyoh, I had already seen all the horrors the world had to offer and she remained completely untouched by them. Her family sent her away to make money for their family, and I know she missed them terribly, but my aunt treated her more as a daughter, much like she treated me as her son.”

“You played the part they wanted you to play,” Will adds, pieces clicking together in his mind.

“An insightful way of putting it. I was a burden to my aunt and uncle, I disturbed Chiyoh’s youthful innocence. I was unable to control myself in sleep, but I learned how to control myself when I was awake, and with that I learned to curate and manage every aspect of my environment in meticulous order.”

“So you developed OCD,” Will teases, feeling like he can’t accept the brutal honesty without being uncomfortable, even though he was the one who asked in the first place.

Hannibal shoots him an amused look, “I have a few obsessive-compulsive qualities, but nothing nearly as pressing as a full-blown disorder. I suffered from extreme loneliness and an inability to express the pain associated with it, so I learned to organize my world beautifully to ease the troublesome thoughts, and as I aged I found it suited me and I quite enjoyed it.”

“Were you… feral?” Will inquires, “In the orphanage.”  
Hannibal says nothing of his word choice, “In some ways. I had no business being in such an environment, I didn’t belong there. I ran on pure survival instinct.”

“You never had your basic physiological needs met, so you never progressed onto the less pressing ones. Maslow’s Hierarchy,” Will offers, shrugging slightly.

“One of the watchman at the orphanage referred to me as a wild animal,” Hannibal deadpans, clearly distant from the memory entirely, “I was known to bite, kick… growl. Whatever needed to be done. Of course, bad behaviors were never rewarded and such actions did not play in my favor. I went many nights without food, slept many nights on the floor with no bedding. Punishment that always failed to have the desired impact because it merely made me feel less stable and secure, therefore even harder to control.”

Will blinks once, slowly, picturing the dark haired, pale-skinned, impossibly bright child who lived in constant terror, to the point of reverting to the most primitive instincts. “When did it become sexual?”

Hannibal has his back to Will as he works at the counter, but Will doesn’t miss the slight hunch of his shoulders and tensing of his back during the brief pause. “Not long after I arrived there. My selective mutism made me an easy target.”

“Thus, your memory palace was born,” Will concludes gently. He doesn’t want to imagine it, doesn’t want to picture it. Will wants to touch Hannibal, offer something comforting, because he thinks socially normal constructs would encourage it, but instead he remains rooted in place.

“Indeed. When you can’t overcome your surroundings, tip your head back, close your eyes, and wade into the quiet of the stream.” Will shivers at the memory, realizing now Hannibal spoke purely from experience when he’d first said it to Will. His stomach starts to ache with a flash of pain, and in his mind’s eye, he’s back in Hannibal’s kitchen, bleeding out onto the floor. When he turns to look towards Abigail, though, a much younger boy looks back at him with wide, shocked eyes. Will reaches a bloodied hand to him, hushing him quietly when the boy mewls and recoils, slipping in their pooling blood.

Will flinches when Hannibal touches his cheek gently, startling from his vision, “Don’t trouble yourself, Will. Don’t go there in your mind, and don’t bring us there with you,” Hannibal comforts, “Don’t shed tears for a long-gone child. We are here now, together, every moment of suffering has ensured our survival so we could share these moments.”

Simple as that, Hannibal goes to check on Bedelia, and Will can do nothing but follow in tow despite being dazed, finding her looking remarkably comfortable considering the circumstances. Hannibal’s bedside manner is impeccable, asking her about her pain and comfort, fiddling with her IV. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour,” he informs her, tenderly brushing her hair back.

“Is it rude to skip this meal?”

“Yes, very. It’s your final supper Bedelia; Christ—”

“Please, Hannibal,” she interrupts, “If this is my last meal, I don’t want to hear your historical accounts or any philosophical doubletalk. I know you love the sound of your own voice, but those of us who aren’t as taken with you grow tired of hearing it.”

Hannibal’s smile is lopsided and shows teeth, “Well then, I’m sorry to have bored you so often with my conversation.”

“Did you just… politely tell him to shut up?” Will asks, bewildered.

“Yes,” she says simply, shutting her eyes to tune them out.

Hannibal clearly is amused by it, and Will has to give her credit—she was going to be true to herself to the very end, and she really wasn’t all that afraid of Hannibal. They leave her be while Hannibal nearly compulsively checks the food, fiddling over the details of the table setting. “How did you do that without getting an ounce of blood on your suit?”

“Extensive practice and intense focus,” he muses, “Chiyoh was very capable in collecting what I needed—with the right tools and knowledge, amputation is relatively clean work.”

“It was impressive,” Will comments thoughtlessly. In another world, Hannibal’s skills could be used for a lot of good. Not this world, though, apparently.

“Thank you,” he offers sincerely.

They’re quiet for the rest of the time, Will content just to watch Hannibal work in his element. It’s nearly midnight when the meal is ready, and Will finds himself hungry and ready for this part of their life to be over.

“Is Chiyoh joining us?”

“I prepared a table setting for her, I assume she’s been keeping a close watch. I don’t believe she will join us, though.”

“We can pack her leftovers,” Will adds, and Hannibal offers him an amused, fond smile, but says nothing about it.

“I’ll fetch Bedelia, if you’d please finish bringing the rest of the wine and meal to the table?”

Will pours wine into the four glasses, eyeballing how much he’s seen Hannibal do, pretending he doesn’t just fill his own glasses to the rim when Hannibal isn’t looking. Hannibal returns with Bedelia bridal style in his arms, her dress and hair nearly perfectly in place, and he gently sets her down in her seat and they both return to the kitchen to bring in the last of the meal. Hannibal stops Will with a hand on his arm to kiss him once, innocently, before they return and settle for a meal.

Disorientated, Bedelia glares that them, “Where will you two love-birds be honeymooning next?”

It’s almost like they’re back in Baltimore, almost, with how casually Hannibal talks and how awkward Will feels. It feels even more like they’re back in Baltimore when Hannibal freezes suddenly, midsentence, and turns his nose up to smell the air.

Will feels every ounce of his being melt into a puddle when Jack emerges from the hallway, gun drawn and pointed directly at Hannibal.

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal says calmly, “You’re fortunate, we’ve prepared extra.”


	14. Serene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serene: an expression of calm, tranquility, or peacefulness; a scene that provokes calmness like the expanse of a clear sky or a still body of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. Wow!
> 
> The last chapter will just be the epilogue with some more character exploration/them getting to know each other. Fan service, if you will. It will have some more heavy themes, so beware of chapter notes for that. It will be available in the next week or so.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! This has been a blast to write.

“Hello, Hannibal,” Jack responds tersely, “Will.”

Will feels like he’s a mute, rooted in place with his voice stolen. Suddenly, there isn’t enough oxygen in the room, maybe in the world.

“How did you find us, Jack?” Will finally squeaks out.

“Bedelia has been in contact with me, daily. When I didn’t hear from her, nor did Freddie Lounds or Alana, I knew he’d finally shown up.”  
Will’s blood runs cold, his eyes flickering to Hannibal and back to Jack. “Freddie Lounds told us you’d suffered a head injury, a shame you recovered.”

Hannibal smiles, still in annoyingly good spirits, “Will was very attentive to caring for me throughout the course of my injury.”

Jack’s gaze turns to Will, but the gun doesn’t waver from Hannibal, “This doesn’t have to be the end for you too, Will. You’ve been completely brainwashed by this man. I know your heart and I know who you are.” There’s a swell of emotion in Jack’s voice, one that Will feels lump in his own throat as well. He came here to kill Hannibal, but it’s clear he did not come here to kill Will. “Molly misses you, Will. Walter asks about you. I’ve… I’ve thought about you every day since you’ve gone missing. Not a day goes by I don’t feel endless guilt over all that’s happened. Let’s make it right.” Jack's voice is barely above a whisper, and Will knows he has already accepted it is a lost cause. To Jack, Will is too far gone, too far out of reach. Something tugs at Will's ribcage, his affection for Jack Crawford, maybe the affection he refused to acknowledge all this time.

“Your guilt comes too late, Jack,” Hannibal chimes in, “You let Will get too close. Against all of our best advice, you chose to push Will.”

Jack levels his menacing glare at Hannibal again, “You pulled the strings since day one, Hannibal. It ends today. We didn't push Will towards anything but you.”

“Jack,” Will interrupts, not sure where the sentence will go, “You know nothing would ever be the same.”

His eyes flick to Hannibal, whose staring at him. He knows Hannibal is waiting for him to say he’s in love with him, admit he’s there of his own free will. Hannibal’s head tilts slightly, almost curiously, before he looks away and back at Jack. There is only a brief indication of his hurt at Will's seeming conflict.

Will feels the muscles in his chest crushing together painfully, “Stand up, Hannibal,” Jack deadpans, ignoring Will's plea.

“Unfortunately, Jack, you’d have to kill me in cold blood,” Hannibal says calmly, cleaning his hands on his napkin and then settling them neatly on the table, “I won’t provoke you, and I won’t give you a reason to pull the trigger, just to ease your own guilt.”

“I’m not guilty,” Jack spits, his face twitching with emotion. Jack had been through a lot, and in another life, Will would feel bad for him. Now, he wants him to go, wants him gone. He doesn't want anymore suffering or bloodshed. Bedelia was a necessary casualty, this-- this was excessive and messy.

“Of course you are,” Hannibal says smoothly. Will grits his teeth at the way Hannibal flippantly pokes the bear, “You failed to save Bella, and you welcomed me into your life, her life… Will’s life. I am one of your closest friends, if not your only true friend.”

Jack laughs, once, sarcastically, “True friend,” he repeats, “Killing you would be low on my list of things to feel guilty about.”

Hannibal shrugs, “Your guilt doesn’t come from killing me, you feel guilty because you hesitated. You’re hesitating again, and you’re guilty because you don’t actually want to kill me at all.”

Will wishes he was sitting closer to kick him under the table, shut him up, anything. Instead, he finds himself mute and completely helpless. Jack takes a step closer and suddenly Will finds motion in his limbs.

He slips forward in his chair, the blood pulsing in his temples, “Jack,” he warns, “Please, Jack.” What is he begging for? Hannibal and Jack both turn to look at him, both of them look surprisingly hurt and not for totally different reasons.

Jack speaks first: “You’ll thank me for this eventually, Will.”

Will shakes his head in a hard, jerky motion, his throat tight with emotion. Did he want a way out? Why isn’t he saying anything else? “Jack,” he whispers, tears stinging his eyes. His legs shake when he sees tears reflected in Jack’s eyes, “You can’t. This isn’t who you are, Jack. You’re a man of law and order, this is vengeance and vigilantism.”

Jack’s jaw clenches and unclenches, “Law and order,” Jack repeats solemnly, “has long since lost this battle, Will. We both know that.” Jack’s gun never wavers from Hannibal, and after a long moment his eyes turn back to him too. Bedelia sits quietly, her drugged expression distant but interested. She has no skin in this game anymore. “Stand up, Hannibal,” Jack says again, more forceful and sure this time. Will can hear he made up his mind. Jack speaks with the finality of a man who has made up his mind, resigned to his fate.

Something shockingly like a sob bursts from Will’s chest, the line of panic creeping up on him. Hannibal doesn’t move, Will sees from the corner of his eye that he’s still watching him, waiting for him to make a real, definitive decision. “Jack,” he chokes, shuts his eyes as if not seeing it doesn’t make it real, “I need him, Jack. Please.”

There is silence for a moment, _”Will,”_ Jack breathes, “You don’t. This-This isn’t real. Whatever he’s got you believing—”

“No,” Will says more assertively, more determined now, “No. I could’ve let him die multiple times. Every single time I knew that if he died, the rest of me would die with him.” It feels easier now to look at Hannibal, and the other man looks back knowingly. A man, just a man. Many other things, too, but sitting there as just a man. A man who would deserve whatever Jack wanted to do, but a man that Will never wanted to admit he saw much more to. “He didn’t make me believe anything this time, Jack. I came to these realizations on my own.”

Jack stands there with a closed off expression, his eyes unwaveringly on Hannibal. “I’m sorry, Will,” he says finally.

Will feels himself swell and burst, the tears running freely now. He hadn’t felt real, true terror and anguish in so long and here it was staring him in the face. Hannibal looks unafraid, almost serene, at Will’s confession. Will wants to plead with him to say something to Jack, and instead he just melts into tears that have been waiting to fall for months, maybe even years. “It’s okay, Will,” Hannibal says finally, “Close your eyes, put your head back, and wade into the quiet of the stream.”

“Jack,” Will pleads again, and this time he doesn’t recognize his own voice, can’t see through his tears. The quiet ticking of the clock on the wall now seems deafening, echoing through the room, time is not on their side anymore. It probably never was. The chair under him quivers with his shaking, his fingernails digging into his palms where he clenched his hands. “Jack, just don’t do this.”

“Will,” Hannibal says again, more firmly, “It’s alright. It will be alright,” he insists. It only makes Will cry harder—it’s the first time Hannibal ever offered him any comfort, any reassurance, any indication that he’d choose Will over himself. If this was their last conversation, Hannibal had chosen to not spend the time goading Jack or teasing Bedelia, had not chosen to poke at Will or speak to him in riddles that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Instead, he looked at Will with such a passion and deep affection, a knowing and resigned look in his eyes. Will wanted to scream at him to do something to stop this, instead his brain feels foggy and his vision blurs. “Deep breaths, Will. You’re hyperventilating. I’m right here,” Hannibal murmurs soothingly. Is he hyperventilating? He turns to look at Jack, confused, wishing either of them would end this and help him. “Look at me, Will, stay here with me,” Hannibal snaps abruptly, redirecting his attention back to Hannibal’s face, a small smile gracing Hannibal’s long, thin lips. "Don't leave me now, Will," Hannibal adds more gently now, and he's so achingly calm that it just makes Will fall apart more. He wants to reach for Hannibal, touch him, anything, but instead he just shakes his head mutely and tries not to scream.

Will flinches when the shot rings so loud it pierces his skull as if he was the one shot. There is an agonized yell, the sound of a wounded animal, and he can’t admit that it’s coming from him. If he never opens his eyes again, it will never be real, he won’t ever have to _see_ this. Will’s head falls into his hands when he crumbles towards the table as if a puppet with the strings cut, eyes squeezed tightly shut to preserve the image of Hannibal—that small smile-- just a little longer.

“Will.”

He shies away from a warm hand on his back, “Will.” He doesn’t want to fucking hear it, doesn’t want to be touched. Doesn’t want to hear Jack try to say anything to make this better, to make this right. He wants to keep his eyes closed and stay right where Hannibal had asked him to. “It’s okay Will.” Strong, solid arms pull him towards a warm, sturdy body standing next to him. Will leans pliantly against it, refusing to open his eyes, refusing to hear anything but the coursing of blood through his veins and the piercing ring of the gunshot in his ear drums. “It’s time to go now, Will. It’s over.”

Will makes no move to stand, frozen in time, in what will forever be their last moment. Jack crouches next to him, clasping both of Will’s trembling hands in his own, “Please look at me, Will.”

It takes every ounce of effort to open his eyes, and it isn’t Jack’s face he sees. Hannibal looks up at him from where he kneels, his face nothing but concern and desperation splattered with blood. Will jumps, looks around—Jack lays dead where he had stood moments before, his eyes open and staring unseeingly, blood pooling around a hole in his back. Bedelia sits slumped in her chair, blood flowing somewhat steadily from a slash in her throat. Will whines, emotionally drained and confused, then sniffles and looks at Hannibal.

“We need to go,” Will jumps, again, his nerves frayed and on edge. Chiyoh has her gun slung over her shoulder from the hallway behind them, watching the scene unfold before her with feigned disinterest.

A large, warm hand cups Will’s cheek and turns his face, “Your anguish is unwarranted Will. You can mourn Jack later, but today you don’t have to start living without me. Not again.”

Will laughs, somewhat breathlessly, his emotions a whirlwind, “Fuck, that…”

“I know,” Hannibal sighs, “To hear you admit those things to Jack; I find I never imagined you would, even if you wanted to.” Hannibal sounds fond, proud, and most importantly, smitten. Will blinks to clear the tears from his blurred vision, offering his own wary smile in response to Hannibal’s genuine one.

“I said it because it’s true.”

Hannibal licks his lips, leans up to press a kiss to Will’s forehead, and stands to his full height again, pulling Will to stand too. “I have no doubt it was. We must go now, Will.”

So, they do, leaving the bloody scene and cooling dinner on the table behind them.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few firsts and one last.
> 
> Epilogue: A final act or concluding event; serves as a comment or conclusion to part of a story while offering elaboration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:
> 
> This chapter contains more graphic descriptions of child abuse. It also contains mild animal death and mild drug use. One brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Overall a more graphic chapter, nothing extremely intense.

_  
The cold raises goosebumps on the paper-thin skin, small tremors dancing across the nude body deliciously. I stand in the doorway a moment longer, the room illuminated with nothing but candlelight, listening for footsteps or voices. Any indication we will be found._

_No one comes. We are alone._

_The room is silent, as is the hall, aside from quiet, distressed breathing. I watch the boy huddle on the bed, his body disturbingly thin to the point of starvation. His shirt was already gone, compulsively folded and smoothed on the armoire. We’d sat at the small coffee table in the corner for the past two hours, him studying the chessboard intently, me studying him. He had fidgeted—a nasty, anxious habit—picking at his fingers and nails distractedly in between moving pieces._

_‘Stop,’ I had said simply, and immediately he drops his hands into his lap, jaw tensing, eyes never leaving the board. ‘What makes you so endlessly nervous?’_

_Dark eyes flickered up from the board for a split second before dropping back to the pieces, ‘If you’re trying to disguise your feelings, fidgeting is a giveaway.’_

_The boy lifts his hands and places them flat on the table, but his entire body moves minutely with the miniscule bobbing of his knee. Constant movement, constant energy, perhaps the concealed energy to run. ‘Checkmate,’ I say gently, smiling at the pinched look on his face. I let him study the board a moment longer, considering where he went wrong, what he could do better. Such a look of concentration, his knee had stopped jumping and finally he is still. ‘You get more beautiful by the day,’ I offer, ‘I should like to look at you.’_

_Eyebrows creased, the gears in his mind turning—do it willingly or it will be done for you—and he makes a decision. Slowly, fractionally, he unbuttons his flimsy shirt, standing to fold it like he always does. Buying time, trying to enter a phase between this world and the next, but his shaking hands give him away._

_Immediately, his arms had grasped at his biceps—he doesn’t let anyone else offer him that same touch. I’ve tried. He’d scrambled away like the touch had physically burned his skin right from the fragile bone beneath. Fascinating creature, severe suffering brought on just by the offer of physical comfort._

_He sits so still now, his fight completely gone, but there is still fear. Fear and discomfort—he knows I’m watching, stare boring into his back and watching the way his bruised ribs expand and contract with every shallow breath._

_Even though he isn’t looking at me, he still flinches when I stalk forward, his senses heightened despite his need to retreat. I stand in front of him and push his long, oily hair from his face, examining his dark, sunken eyes that radiate pure defeat with every blink. ‘Won’t you talk to me?’ I ask, because I always ask—I wonder if the others ask. Some philosophize that he’s a dunce—too stupid to comprehend or think. One said he’s nothing but a warm body, perfect for—_

_I don’t think so, I can see awareness in his eyes when they flick to mine and quickly divert to the candle. He studies the flame like it is the most interesting thing in the world, refusing to bring himself anywhere his mind can be touched, and hugs himself a little tighter. He copes like this—an attempt to self-soothe, boney fingers and trembling hands rubbing nervously at his own biceps in a half hug. I wondered why he wasn’t afraid of the flame, with the amount of time matches have been put out against his skin. Small, red circles wound the top of his thighs like a constellation in the sky. I can’t bring myself to do that, even though part of me sees the appeal. Resilient is the body when the mind has learned to stay away._

_He doesn’t flinch anymore when I take hold of his wrists and pull them from the secure and comforting hold he’s clasped himself in, but he does tense up, eyes redirected to stare at one of his boney wrists held in my much larger hand. He remains fixated on this imaginary point when I study his torso—he’s grown since he got here, at least physically, as much as someone who doesn’t eat properly can. I squeeze his wrists a little tighter, feeling the bones creak under the skin; I could snap them, we both know that, part of him waits and wonders if I will._

_The protective layer over his mind thins and tears when I press a forceful kiss onto his mouth—it always does, because he’s still just a boy. A boy whose instincts tell him to flee—his breath stutters in his chest, his arms try to reflexively jerk in my hold, and he flinches back before going completely still. Terror—pure and unaltered—thrums restlessly just beneath the skin. I know how to reach him and lure him back to reality, back to the present. There is nowhere to hide._

_He doesn’t kiss back, he never does. No matter. I shove him back onto the bed and pounce, his eyes wide and jaw tense. I hold both his wrists and pin them to his side, pressing rough kisses to his neck just to hear the sharp gasp. ‘Do you like it?’ I ask, the boy groaning quietly, and the struggle breaks through. I laugh when he jerks and tries in vain to pull his arms free, legs kicking uselessly until I twist his arm enough to still his efforts. The fine bones of the elbow crunch as they’re stretched to the limit, and the boy whines once and then swallows any other sounds, breath hitching on an inhale, and finally goes still, mouth slightly parted like he’s frozen in time. Fine tremors twitch under his skin, his arm shaking in an effort not to struggle and cause damage to himself. ‘Take a breath,’ I remind him after breathless beats of staring at each other. The boy seems to have forgotten the need to breathe, until his lungs jerk to life and inhale sharply through his mouth and roughly exhale through his nose. I twist just a fraction further, and his free hand shoots out to grasps tightly at the sleeve of my shirt, a small grunt of a sound breaking free from his chest. Thin fingers pull desperately at the material, half in pain and half to get my attention. He has my undivided attention already, but the grip grounds him and reminds me he’s alive and feeling everything._

_He’s breathing faster now, shallowly, I know he’ll venture into hyperventilation soon. Wide, pleading eyes stare up at me, silently begging me to let go, followed by a chilling relief washing over him when I release his arm so he can pull it protectively close to his chest. I let him, offering a small reassuring smile when he licks his lips and releases the death grip on my sleeve. ‘Don’t do that again,’ I remind him gently, a lesson learned, brushing strands of hair from his face. The knobs of his sternum protrude from pale skin when he swallows gulps of air, eyes squinting and face pinched with conflict. He doesn’t look scared anymore—uncertain, perhaps—but not scared. I gentle towards him, taking some of my weight on my arm and using my free hand to sweetly rub a thumb against his sharp cheekbone. Dark, empty eyes twitch to mine curiously, interested, chapped lips parting under my thumb. The resistance is washed away followed by a numb acceptance._

_‘Do you want it, Hannibal?’_

__

“Will?”

Breaking the surface of his dream sends him bolting from the bed, “Don’t fucking touch me,” Will insists to the air, “Fuck.”

Hannibal looks at him with nothing but sleepiness and concern, those eyes are different, but clearly the same. “You were dreaming.”

Will feels bile in his throat and bolts again, this time for the bathroom. He’d never had that kind of dream in all the dreams he’d had of Hannibal’s childhood. He felt disgusting, his skin alive with the memories of a monster who took pleasure in tormenting and abusing a child. “Will?” Hannibal says soothingly, kneeling next to him on the bathroom floor, “It’s alright. Can I touch you now?”

Will doesn’t wait for him to, and instead falls into him and clutches him for stability. “What did you dream of?”

“You. Always you.”

Hannibal waits, and Will debates if he should lie or not. If he does, Hannibal will probably know, he always knows these days. So, he doesn’t: “I… wasn’t me. I was a man, but I never saw my own face. There was a boy, young. Maybe in his early teens. I… The man hurt him. You, you were the little boy.”

Hannibal doesn’t react aside from rubbing Will’s back soothingly, “You assumed the perspective of a child abuser.”

Will clenches his eyes shut in shame, hot tears flowing freely, “Yes, God. Fuck,” he chokes, sniffles, “You were so… You were terrified, but you didn’t…” Will loses his train of thought. “He loved you, or some version of you. He thought he was different because he knew you were intelligent. To him, he was playing a game to test your limits, to break you.”

Hannibal is quiet, and Will doesn’t move to see his face, “Everyone had different motivations. Times were desperate. Resources were sparse—many of the men lost their families, and with the horrors they saw, they also lost their humanity. Dehumanizing me made it easier to assault me without the ramifications of guilt.”

Will swallows once, hard, “This man didn’t do that.”

“No.”

“So, you remember him?”

A brief hesitation is the only indication Hannibal gives that he’s uncomfortable, “Yes.”

Will leans back, wipes his eyes, and frowns at Hannibal in the dark bathroom, “He saw you as a… person. What happened to him?”

Hannibal studies him for a few minutes in silence, contemplating, Will can see the wheels turning as it, again, strikes him how little he can hide from Will. “I killed him.”

That makes Will smile, pleased at the thought of the boy taking matters into his own hands. “Tell me about it.”

They sit against the bathroom wall in the dark, and Will listens. Listens to how Hannibal stashed a butcher knife in that very room, and waited. Waited for the opportunity and the nerve, for days, weeks even. That man, sometimes, wanted other things—

“Plenty of nights, he’d read to me, or we’d play chess,” Hannibal admits quietly, and Will knows these are memories hidden deep, deep in the memory palace. The rooms where Will dragged him by the hand and turned the lights on and blinded him, “Some nights he enjoyed holding me, bathing me.”

Will stares straight ahead at the cabinet in the bathroom, “Did you like that part of it?”

“To a degree, yes,” Hannibal says, “I appreciated the comfort and the company. Some nights he brought me extra food, and I was always hungry.”

“It must’ve been very confusing,” and he means that. A young boy, starved physically and emotionally, would want for nothing more than exactly those things. “Predators groom their victims to trust and rely on them. That sounds a lot like grooming.”

“In modern days I would certainly say that would be my professional diagnosis,” Hannibal agrees, “Unfortunately, I had little options. I was aware of his intentions, and regardless of how willing part of me was, I was unable to do anything about it anyway.”

Will can still hear it, the crunch of a joint bent too far in the wrong direction, the small sound of pain… His own arm tingles, and he flexes his fingers in response, “Did he,” he starts, swallowing and clearing his throat, “Did he break your elbow?”

“No, he only threatened with violence, only pushed enough to make it painful.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

Hannibal turns his head to study him, “Of course not, Will. You’ve a remarkable gift to hear bits and pieces of a story and assume the role of the perpetrator in it to fill in the blanks. You see the experience through their eyes, probably because you can already feel the victim, and the perpetrator gives you a clearer picture. Tell me, what did you learn?”

“That it was disgusting and perverse—it was a crime against humanity,” he says earnestly, “I think I watched the construction of your memory palace. You were trying to retreat, but the science wasn’t perfect yet. You hadn’t learned how to do it yet, but the urge to be able to was there in your eyes. You were drawn back to reality with the escalation of violence.”

“Such coping mechanisms take time to develop and perfect. He contributed greatly to the process.” Will can see it—countless horrors and atrocities that Hannibal had endured. He could hear the screams and see terrified eyes, never uttering a word but clearly pleading. Each time, he’d give them less and less, slowly learning to numb himself, to turn himself off to it. The Hannibal he’d seen was almost there, his brain was almost far enough away in his skull, only his body left to impulsive reactions of fear and a need to try to comfort himself. The body only knows instinct and reaction when the mind isn’t there to govern it. The child had learned the touch comforted him, that he craved it, and the instinct was to offer it to himself.

Will reaches for his hand in the dark and holds on, “How did it feel to kill him?”

“Part of me didn’t want to—I was afraid to lose whatever he did offer me. I had to seize the moment when it was presented, just as he developed my trust in him, he developed a trust in me. He let his guard down. After we had intercourse one night, he simply fell asleep. That had never happened before, and I knew it was time. I’d never used a butcher’s knife before, and there was no precision or technique. I simply kept hitting him until he stopped moving.”

Will sighs, “Then what?”

“Nothing. I climbed out the window and ran away. Found my way to my aunt’s estate after a long journey through the Lithuanian winter. One story bled into another.”

Will smiles softly, “I don’t know the appropriate response. I’m sorry seems too pedestrian, good job seems disturbing.”

Hannibal smiles back, “Nothing to be troubled with. Not every story requires a response, some are just purely informational. I’m sorry you were disturbed by such dreams, I know you carry them with you long after you’re woken.”

Will lets his head drop back against the wall with a thud, the hour and the lack of restful sleep catching back up with him now that he’d calmed down. “It was fucking sickening,” he breathes, shivering at the echo of that small hitch of breath from someone who is trying not to scream.

“Come, let us go back to bed. I’ll fetch you some water,” Hannibal says easily, remarkably detached from the whole memory. In this respect, Will envies him, whatever it is with someone like him that lets him compartmentalize like he does is something to marvel at.

He’s grateful for the water when Hannibal offers it, even more grateful when they cuddle close, Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him tightly. It’s the first real nightmare Will has about Hannibal’s childhood, and it won’t be the last, but for now, he doesn’t dream again that night.

\------------------------  
The first time Hannibal has a nightmare, it’s far more graceful and almost polite. Will wakes and blinks blearily, unsure what disturbed him in the first place. Hannibal’s arm is anchored securely around his waist, his long fingers are tangled tightly in the bedsheets in front of Will. At his back, Hannibal is pressed flush, his forehead pressed firmly against the nap of Will’s neck. Will waits, feeling minute twitches against his back, the tickle of fluttering eyelashes against the sensitive skin of his neck.

What really alerts him is the sudden hitch of his breath, followed by the tension of someone holding their breath in their lungs. Will had heard that sound before-- in his own dreams, he’d heard Hannibal’s breath hitch when he swallowed a scream and buried the terror in his diaphragm. Will gently strokes the tense arm caging him in, shushing quietly, encouraging Hannibal to release his breath in whatever form it would force itself out of his throat. Will switches to a soothing hum, nothing more than a quiet rumble in his chest, while he teases the fine hair on Hannibal’s forearm comfortingly; he waits, knowing eventually the oxygen will have to escape, tries to remain relaxed to avoid elevating the situation further. He doesn’t expect Hannibal to scream, and he doesn’t, but the breath is finally released with a nearly inaudible whine against the top of Will’s spine, muscles quivering with poorly concealed tension.

“Okay,” Will whispers into the dark, “I’m right here.” He doesn’t dare move or grasp, he has no idea how Hannibal reacts to being woken from nightmares, aside from Chiyoh recounting the deep horror he’d break from when he woke as a child, how utterly scared he was to have anyone come too close, especially then. Hannibal, now, may resort to violence, intended or not.

Finally, the tense arm caging him in jerks, the fist knotting in the sheets impossibly tight and pulling them untucked, and Will knows Hannibal woke up. He can feel the warm puffs of accelerated breath silently ghosting across his skin. All at once, Hannibal eases up and carefully moves to extract his arm from Will, clearly planning a retreat. “Hey,” Will offers into the dark without turning around.

“Sorry to wake you,” Hannibal offers back politely, his voice distant, sheltered.

Will slowly turns and rolls to face the other way, not closing the few inches of space Hannibal had put between them. He doesn’t shy away from the guarded, calculated look in Hannibal’s eyes. “Don’t apologize, I wake you up all the time,” Will smiles awkwardly, waiting for something. Hannibal doesn’t say anything else, and instead studies one of the faint bruises on Will’s throat that he’d sucked into the skin the night before. “You… hold your breath,” Will says gently, “You still do. You were, just before. In your sleep,” Will keeps elaborating, wishing he hadn’t said anything when Hannibal’s eyes merely flicker to his before looking back at his throat. “When you’re trying to remain in control, you hold your breath like you’re holding the emotions in your chest so you can maintain control.”

Hannibal inhales deeply, silently, but Will can tell from the movement of his bare chest, “That was what I was missing as a child. I failed to understand the importance of breathing in controlling the mind and body. Holding your breath sends the brain and body into a panic—oxygen is critical for composure, thinking, and functioning. I had to learn to breathe through the feelings, breathe deeply and slowly, so the brain could function at maximum capacity to retreat successfully into the memory palace. It could not be forced there in a panic as it sought escape and air, it had to be coaxed there gently to be successful.”

Will can see Hannibal, so much smaller, holding his breath, eyes pinched shut desperately trying to block out reality, trying to retreat into his mind to escape. His heart would be beating wildly, harder and harder the longer he held his breath, his body growing more and more tense, blood throbbing in his veins as he tried to force himself to calm down. He’d tense so much his pulse would be visible in his temples, until finally he had to breathe, the door to his memory palace slamming shut as he was clamoring for it just as he’d start to gasp and hyperventilate. “It makes sense. It’s the body’s natural reaction to start to panic over lack of oxygen, especially when exposed to traumatic and intense stimuli.”

“An assault on the body can only be registered through the mind, and the mind can only function at peak performance if it’s fed sufficient oxygen,” Hannibal agrees, “I suppose that knowledge is elusive in sleep.”

“What did you dream about?”

Hannibal’s dark eyes finally meet his calmly, his features softened and more relaxed. “That moment we hit the water. It feels like every bone in my body shatters, as if we hit concrete. Only they don’t—I feel that disturbing sense of peace when I’m floating there in the dark. Then, there’s hands grasping at me, pulling me deeper and deeper, forcing water up my nose and in my mouth. They try to down me—they pull me further and further away from you.”

Will listens, tries to picture it and imagine it, and it isn’t that hard. He hasn’t forgotten what Hannibal’s face looked like when they struggled against the cliff bluff together. He was suffering, disorientated, and clearly afraid; that was the first of many times to come that Hannibal had clung to him almost helplessly. He was no less human than anyone else in those moments. “The water feels like someone crushing me with their weight, immobilizing me thoroughly and completely. Part of me wants to let go, let fate run its course like its tried to so many times in the past, but then I think of you and I want to touch you one last time. That is when I start to panic and struggle,” that’s when he holds his breath, fighting the tides of turmoil that threaten to bubble and burst in a scream.

“It sounds terrifying,” Will whispers into the space between them, brows furrowed with guilt.

“But you are here,” Hannibal concludes, closing the gap and nuzzling his head under Will’s chin, “I got to touch you one more time, and a million times after that.”

Will feels the tears well in his eyes and he holds Hannibal to him, “I smell your tears, don’t cry.” Will laughs once, sharply, pressing his eyes together tightly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he whispers back teasingly, “I’m in charge here, remember?”

“How could I ever forget, Will?”

\-----------------------

It’s cold in Denmark, and dark most of the day—Hannibal’s property is a relatively small cottage in the north of the country. The snow is heavy, and Will enjoys tending to their needs in a somewhat remote way. He buys fresh meat and whatever vegetables from a local farmer and butcher, and chops firewood to fuel their fireplace. Hannibal composes pieces on various instruments, and Chiyoh has taken to writing poetry that Hannibal excitedly reads in different languages.

Hannibal is mostly calm, but he commands their household in a silent manner. They know their place, and they know that any decisions are his and his alone to make. Will accepts that, accepts that Hannibal will decide when they kill again, when they move again. He’s given up wanting to fight that, especially when Hannibal so pliantly bends to his whims in other ways.

They tumble in front of the fireplace, tipsy on wine, or fall into bed, Hannibal’s hands tied tightly to the headboard. Things are peaceful, really, too peaceful. Will is sure their peace will thaw with the warmer weather, but now they hide from the chill and reality as much as possible.

He presses a kiss to Hannibal’s mouth in the early mornings when he leaves to run his errands and fetch them food, gently touches Chiyoh’s shoulder on his way out the door. The walks clear his mind, he appreciates the time to think. He’s also come to like the interaction with the few locals they meet, nicer Danes with limited English. It’s easy to hide his identity behind layers of clothing to stave off the cold, but he makes a point to chat every time he has to see them.

“The dog,” Will says one afternoon while the local farmer gathers whatever crops he’s been able to salvage, along with the homemade spices, jams, fresh bread, and a pie, “Whose is he?”

The woman looks from Will to the dog who lays on the porch in the cold, “Not sure, he showed up here last week. Hasn’t left.”

The dog looks cold, his eyes impossibly sad, “Gonna keep him?”

“Maybe if he doesn’t bother my other animals.”

Will stares at the dog a moment longer, “I’ll give you 100 Kroner for him.” The words leave his mouth before he even really thinks it through.

The farmer eyes him curiously, then looks at the money, “I sell a dog who isn’t mine?”

Will shrugs, “Sure, why not? No one’s come looking yet. If someone does, let me know.”  
She hesitates for a moment, then takes the payment and hands Will his groceries, “Do you have a rope?”

The dog limps along with him, giving little resistance to going home with him. Clearly, his spirit had been broken by something somewhere. Will can relate. He whispers to the dog the whole walk home, describing Chiyoh in detail, warning him about Hannibal’s fussiness; he finds himself telling the dog that it won’t take much for Hannibal to like him.

At the door, he takes his boots off and dries the dog’s paws on the inside of his jacket carelessly, and leads him inside. Chiyoh lays nude on the lounge, Hannibal sitting at his desk sketching away. Will blinks at them, and they both turn to look at him, then blink at the dog. “Uh, hello.”

“Welcome home,” Hannibal greets warmly, “And who do we have here?”

“A dog,” Will says stupidly, glancing at Chiyoh and looking away uncomfortably, “Stray, I guess. I think something might be wrong with him.”

The dog sits by the door and slowly slides to the floor and lays there. Hannibal rises and comes around the room to crouch in front of the dog. Hannibal offers the back of his hand, which the dog dejectedly smells and then puts his head back down. Hannibal leans closer and inhales, gently petting through the dog’s wet fur. He sits back on his knees after a moment and looks up at Will through his hair, “Cancer. Seems he’s also suffering from depression.”

Will crouches to untie the rope from the collar, “Well, maybe I… _we_ can make his last days, weeks… months, whatever, a little better. Can he stay?”

Hannibal offers him a genuine smile, “Of course he can.”

It’s the first time Hannibal says yes to this question, but certainly not the last.  
\---------------------

Turns out it’s a day of firsts for them, because later that night, it’s the first time Hannibal ventures into uncharted territory for them again.

By the time they’re dressing down for bed, Will still hasn’t decided on a name yet. He has a yearning for Winston, misses all his dog’s terribly. It stings watching the dog curl up on a blanket in the corner of their room.

“Do you want to have sex with Chiyoh?” He asks directly, frowning at the bedsheets to avoid looking at Hannibal.

“No, do you?”

“She’s beautiful,” he starts, “I guess I just find the way you two act together strange.”

“She is beautiful,” Hannibal agree easily, “I can find her beautiful without being sexually attracted to her. You, on the other hand, I ache for.”

Will blushes, gripping the blankets in his fists, “I don’t want to sleep with her. Or anyone for that matter. Besides you,” the blush deepens more.

“I hope we do more than sleep,” Hannibal teases, “If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll be sure to alter how I act with her.”

Will sighs, smiling at him slightly, “More just catches me by surprise. This domestic life is still kind of strange. Molly was a lot less comfortable with just being naked.”

Hannibal hums and says nothing, his hand slowly making its way to Will’s thigh. “What should we name him, the dog?”

Hannibal huffs a laugh, “Whatever you wish.”

Suddenly serious, as if this is the most important thing in the world, Will turns to him, “No, I really want you to name him.”

Hannibal stares at him thoughtfully, blinks once, then looks down at his hand on Will’s thigh, “Alright,” he agrees slowly. Hannibal turns then, looking over at the dog in the corner of the room, “Innsæi.”

“Innsæi,” Will repeats. Not a name he would’ve expected, but then again, he wasn’t sure what to expect with asking Hannibal to name a pet, “What’s it mean?”

“An Icelandic term, loosely translates to the sea within. More of a concept than an exact translation. The notion that there is a whole sea of experience within someone to be discovered—mysteries, hopes, dreams, fears…” Hannibal looks from the dog then, looking back at Will expectantly.

“Seems fitting for our first pet,” Will agrees, pleased when Hannibal looks proud of himself. 

“I’ve been considering something else,” Hannibal says, redirecting their conversation, his hand continuing the journey up Will’s thigh, “Have you ever tried psilocybin?”

Will feels the hand stop just short of the top of his thigh, and Hannibal slowly turns to face him more properly on the bed. “Mushrooms? No, why?”

“They have therapeutic value,” Hannibal mumbles, “I’d like to brew them in a tea for us.”  
Will huffs a laugh, choking it off with a quiet groan when the hand moves higher to cup him through the light pajama pants. “I think it would make for a very intense and heightened experience.”

“You want to get high and have sex?” Will asks incredulously, slightly distracted.

“I want us both to ingest a portioned and safe amount of psilocybin and talk,” Hannibal clarifies, “And if we find ourselves sexually aroused, we could indulge in that as well.”

That leads them to a new first—both of them sitting on the bed sipping tea, Will thrumming with nervous energy, watching Hannibal closely. “Have you ever done this before?”

“A few times,” Hannibal says easily, “The first time was at my Aunt’s house. I had such terrible anxiety attacks she brought in their doctor, who suggested a low dosage to try to get me to speak. I did it again during my residency, and again upon Bedelia’s suggestion in my own therapy.”

Will frowned at the tea, “I don’t feel anything.”

“Don’t be impatient. Finish the tea, the effects will peak in a few hours, but you’ll start to feel them within the first half hour.”

They talk and finish the tea, and sure enough, Will starts to feel funny just as he sets the teacup to the side. Hannibal’s pupils are blown out, and he wonders if his looks much the same. “Can we lay down?” He asks abruptly, feeling tired and slightly queasy, but immediately relieved to be laying flat.

Hannibal’s fingers twitch on the bedsheet, rubbing idly. Will longs to touch him, and nothing stops him from caressing every inch while they talk about everything and nothing. Hannibal describes the specific feeling his first kiss, recalling how confused he’d been over the concept of wanting to enjoy it and being outright disgusted over the taste of liquor and smoke and roughness. Hannibal’s teeth grind loudly when he recalls the feeling of uncertainty at what to do with his hands, the hurt and disappointment when larger hands took his away from any perch they reached for. The feelings of insecurity and shyness at having so many people watching, feeling pathetic when his lips instinctively sought for more.

Will tells about his first kiss, how they’d bumped noses and teeth awkwardly and how he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He recalled laying awake after, feeling unfilled, lonely, and embarrassed. He confesses, for the first time ever, that he had contemplated committing suicide that night, feeling as though there would be nothing fulfilling to come in his life over one measly kiss, after which the girl had promptly left him alone.

“I would’ve liked to be each other’s first kiss,” Will blurts, colors swimming behind his eyelids when he closes them, his fingers tingling where they tangle in Hannibal’s chest hair, “I would’ve been gentle, would’ve wanted to kiss you forever,” he rambles, laughing slightly to himself.

“Show me,” Hannibal requests, the same colors dancing behind his closed eyelids too. The image of the two of them, much younger, much smaller, much more awkward presses against his ribcage and leaves him breathless.

Will wastes no time slotting their mouths together messily, the experience feeling all new with the drugs running through their system. “I would’ve protected you,” Will says finally against his lips, “We would’ve protected each other.”

Hannibal hums slightly in agreement, “The world would’ve been ours to burn from the start.”  
It’s not their first kiss, but it’s the first time they both feel like not a shred exists between them. The world was theirs to burn now.  
\---------------------------------------

Their first death comes a few months later. It seems strange to think of it that way, but when their dog stops being able to lift his head or eat, Will looks to Hannibal sadly. Hannibal looks at his expression curiously, then silently brings out a vial of something and kneels to inject the dog. He hesitates and looks up at Will, “Do you want to say goodbye?” There is hesitation there, clearly a foreign concept to Hannibal, and one he knows about logically and conceptually but never really understood.

Will kneels next to him and touches the dog’s head, he’s already stiff and at peace with his death, “I’m sorry we didn’t have longer together,” Will says, his voice heavy with emotion.

Hannibal waits to see if he will say anything else, and when he doesn’t, he reaches for the paw and holds it briefly in his hand, rubbing it gently for a moment. The dog liked Hannibal—Will had woken up many times to Hannibal helping the dog walk around the yard like Will had taught him. Will had observed Hannibal remain still while the dog was resting on his leg or foot. He’d even heard Hannibal reading quietly to the dog one night. Will had leaned in the doorway and listened, well aware that Hannibal knew he was there. Hannibal read Freddie's article about the murder of Jack and Bedelia, how the murder husbands were on the run again and how Alana Bloom suddenly couldn't be reached for a statement, nor her wife Margot, seemingly have abandoned their positions at the Verger Estate. There is a picture of Will's display he left for Hannibal, remarkably similar to the one he'd left in Lithuania. Freddie blames that murder on Hannibal. She is wrong. Hannibal doesn't care, and looks fondly at Will when he finishes the article. Will wasn’t sure if it was entirely for his benefit, or if Hannibal was learning all over again what it meant to be human, but either way he was doing it.

The dog passes on without much prompting—just the medication and within moments the breath is gone and the heart stops. Hannibal carries the corpse into the yard, the ground warm enough to dig, and he stands by while Will digs a grave near their garden.

They stand there for awhile after he’s buried, Hannibal because he waits for what Will will do, and Will simply because there is something touching about the moment. In the wake of their first death, Will feels profoundly touched. Hannibal had fulfilled the promise he made seemingly so long ago when they first started the journey—he promised he would try, if Will could be patient with him.

“Thank you,” Will says suddenly, earnestly.

“You’re welcome.”

“No, _thank you_ ,” Will stresses, turning to face Hannibal again, “You’ve… this feels remarkably normal. This is the first time our entire relationship doesn't feel like really unhealthy codependency.”

“I’m capable of normalcy,” Hannibal shrugs.

“Yes, but not naturally. You did this for me, you’ve done so much for me.”

Hannibal blinks at him once, then his eyes fall to the ground between them, “I do not want to lose you, Will.”

“Marry me, then,” the words leave Will’s mouth before he can think twice, but after he says it he knows he means it, “I don’t have a ring, and I don’t know how we’d manage it, but marry me.”

Hannibal looks up at him again, eyebrows raised, a small smile on his lips. Nonchalantly, he reaches into his trouser pockets and produces two rings in his palm, “The boxes got ruined throughout the journey.”

A hysterical, emotional laugh bubbles from Will’s throat, and he’s disgustingly giddy, “Of course you have rings, and of course you carry them around.”

“I was waiting for inspiration to strike to ask again, but it seems inspiration has struck you first,” Hannibal sounds surprised, but pleased. “I must remind you, Will. A few good weeks will not mean hardships are not ahead of us.”

“How could I forget? It just doesn’t matter to me anymore. I’m here for the long haul, whatever it may be. Where else would I go?”

“You’d go nowhere I wouldn’t find you,” Hannibal reminds easily, and it’s both a threat and a promise. This isn't the first time Hannibal has said this, but it turns out, it's the last time he has to.


End file.
